A Song For Heart and Soul
by AthenaSophia85
Summary: Kíli has survived where Fíli and Thorin did not. His rule is a reluctant one and Erebor must somehow be rebuilt. Enter Kivi Journeyman - master mason, dwarf-maid, and fugitive. He needs a mason; she needs an ally. Together, the two will find that they might end up meaning more to each other than first expected. *Movie-verse A/U. Violence/adult content warnings provided.*
1. Prologue

" _Far over the Misty Mountains rise,_

 _Leave us standing upon the height."_

" **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Ibriznurt 'Afdush 8th, 2941 T.A.**

 _(Sunday, November 10th)_

 _ **Erebor**_

* * *

Kíli stood in the middle of the wall-walk and gazed solemnly out beyond the parapets above Erebor's vast entrance. He was tempted to lean against the ancient stones and shift some of the pressure of standing so tall off of his "compromised" leg. That was a term Balin had coined - Kíli had given the older dwarf a scowl at the suggestion, but it did sound better than "bad", or "eternally damaged", or "near-useless". The excitement and movement from Lake Town, through Erebor, and through the Battle of the Five Armies had left little time for the leg that had been wounded escaping from the Greenwood to heal properly. The poison had surely been removed from his blood and body, but even Tauriel's Elvish healing couldn't completely replace the need for skin and bone to knit back together on their own.

He would have a "compromised leg" for the rest of his life, Òin had told him reluctantly. During his youth, the leg would probably give him little trouble, although stress of battle and strenuous exertion would cause him to limp. So, it was not an immediate deterrent - a weakness that few ever needed to know about, Dwalin had insisted. The last thirty-one days of rest and mourning had helped what of his leg could be healed, but even so, standing straight with the heavy weight of a king's robe made Kíli's knee tremble ever-so slightly in the beginning stages of protest.

Or, perhaps, the weakness in his knee was just an illusion, conjured by his weary mind. Kíli stared forlornly out across the great, flat plain that stretched between Erebor's gates and Dale. The earth was still torn from battle, the bottom edges of the mountain still singed, the sparse remaining trees still broken beneath the soft mantle of winter's first snow. He refused to lift his eyes toward the frozen waterfall in the distance, or to the towering rock formations known as Ravenhill, where he had watched the three beings he loved the most fall forever beneath the cruel swords of Azog and Bolg.

 _I should be dead, too,_ he thought, his hands curling into fists of anger against the deep blue wool of his finely-woven robe.

He could have sworn that he been dead, too. His mind racing, Kíli reached up with one broad hand and rubbed that still-tender wound on his chest, beneath the weight of his royal finery. Only the joint efforts of Radagast and Gandalf had brought him back to the living; Radagast had said that the severity of the wound had indeed all but killed him by the time he was found, broken and bleeding, on the icy stones of Ravenhill.

Òin could handle what was left in the wake of the wizards' healing; the jagged hole that Bolg's orc-forged weapon had left just above his heart was all but scarred over now. Kíli didn't think, though, that he would ever forget the cold that Bolg's wicked steel had pierced into the very marrow of his bones. It seemed, too, that grief reawakened that fiery, blue-cold pain; every time he turned with a joke on the tip of his tongue, only to see that it was now Dwalin who stood beside him and not Fíli, Kíli could feel ice move beneath his scar tissue and freeze the blood straight into his heart.

It was no better if he thought of Thorin. It was painful, too, to think of Tauriel, but her loss paled in comparison to that of his brother and uncle. The reality of Thorin's and Fíli's deaths cut far past flesh and muscle, and straight into Kíli's once-untarnished soul. It seemed - especially at moments like this, when he felt the weight of his uncle's kingdom on his shoulders - that Bolg's steel was still killing him slowly from the inside.

"Oh, there you are," a familiar tenor voice jolted Kíli from his dark reverie and he dropped his hand back to his side as he turned slowly around to watch Bilbo huff-and-puff up the last of the stairs. "Balin and Dwalin are beside themselves…"

The little fellow stopped and rested his hands on his knees, so that he could take a moment to catch his breath. Kíli raised a thick black eyebrow - once a smile would have accompanied such a movement, but now his lips stayed firmly drawn in a neutral line. It was the best that he could manage these days - not quite his uncle's infamous scowl, but not the easy, roguish grin of before. It was something in-between and nothing at all. Kíli - who, as any archer – had learned to observe dispassionately from the background, now relied heavily on that to help him tamper down the grief and harrowing pain that felt like they would ravage his soul straight to the grave.

"You look as if you've run the whole way from the mines," Kíli pointed out with just the faintest note of alarm - the last thing he wanted was the dearly beloved hobbit to fall over from a failure of his heart.

"Oh, gracious, no," Bilbo still leaned a hand against his right knee, but lifted his left and flapped it at Kíli in a gesture of dismissal. "Just from the kitchens, y'know? I ran into Nori while running an errand for Bombur and he said Dwalin was looking for you, but didn't want to tell him that he'd seen you head this way. We both thought it best if I find you first."

"Why didn't Nori come and find me, then?" Kíli huffed in something remotely related to a laugh.

"Oh, well…" Bilbo finally seemed to have caught his breath and he stood up to his full height - which was about chest-high to the dwarf in front of him. "I think he was trying to chase a-erm," the hobbit coughed uncomfortably, eyed Kíli warily, and then blurted out - "Well, one of the new dwarf-maids."

Kíli just snorted and rolled his dark-brown eyes. The first wave of families from the Iron Hills had arrived just the other day and already half of his uncle's company was chasing after skirts. Kíli was quite certain that he'd never be able to find himself attracted to a dwarf-maiden. Not after such longing for smooth, creamy skin, long, silky red hair, and slender limbs…

Unfortunately, the crown that was waiting for him in the throne room down below dictated by dwarven law that he at least find a dwarf-maiden attractive long enough to create an heir for Durin's people. The thought made Kíli a little ill. Dwarven law also dictated quite a lot of other things about such a union, including that Kíli wed said dwarven-maid before creating said Durin's heir.

J _ust what I've always wanted: a loveless marriage,_ he thought bitterly, as Bilbo (oblivious to the dwarf prince's thoughts) pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped it across his perspiring forehead.

In all actuality, the entirety of the long existence ahead of him was filled with a veritable catalog of all the things he never wanted - the least of which, really, was producing an heir. That was probably one of the few, potentially _titillating_ expectations on the agenda.

"I suppose I should go and get on with it then," Kíli spoke as if to himself as he turned his head back toward the battlements and squinted resentfully at the wan, but cheerful winter midday sun.

"Hm, not quite yet. King Thranduil wishes to speak to you," Bilbo twisted his waist around and peered behind him toward the long flight of stairs below them.

Kíli leaned a bit to the side as well and raised another eyebrow as he watched the the King of the Greenwood lifted the edge of his long, silvery robes and started the steep ascent to where the soon-to-be dwarven king stood. His lips threatened to turn down into a scowl that was eerily reminiscent of his uncle's.

"What in Mahal's name does he want to speak to me about?" he glanced over at Bilbo, as if the hobbit was expected to know.

The smaller, tousle-headed man just shrugged his shoulders.

"Who's to say?"

"Well...best you go find Balin and tell him I'll be on my way. If he grumbles about me being late, blame it on the Elf."

Bilbo smiled, but it was a fragile thing. Kíli had never been, in his experience, a secretive or evasive dwarf. Rather, the youngest prince of Erebor had been quite well known for his reckless youth and fervent passions; he wore his heart on his sleeve as apparently as his brother had worn the dignity of his royal fate. But, things had now changed...the heir and the heir apparent to the Lonely Mountain were now buried in its depths, both slain by Azog. The youngest prince of Durin - the one who had never expected to rule the dwarrow of Middle Earth - would bear the crown of the King Under the Mountain within the hour. And when he had come to that realization within moments of seeing his felled brother and uncle, Kíli had drawn deep within himself.

Bilbo wasn't the only one who feared that such a change was ultimately irrevocable.

"Certainly," the hobbit bowed his head slightly and scampered off past Kíli toward the flight of stairs on the opposite side of the wall-walk.

Kíli watched until the hobbit's sandy-blond head had disappeared into the deeper shadows of the keep. Only then did he turn his eyes forward, to see the tall spires of Thranduil's crown arise majestically one step at a time. Within moments, the elf stepped onto the wall-walk, his movements as straight-backed, elegant, and carefully calculated as always.

"Prince Kíli," Thranduil greeted Kíli in his strange, precise, otherworldly way.

"King Thranduil," Kíli rumbled back; the two inclined their heads politely toward one another. "Master Baggins tells me that you wish to speak to me?" the dwarf's sharp brown eyes met the elf's ethereal blues.

"Yes," Thranduil tucked his hands slowly into the voluminous folds of his silver overcoat; Kíli wondered if the woodland king was purposefully looking down at his nose at him, or if it was just a habit so ingrained into Thranduil's being that he didn't even notice it anymore. "As the eldest ruler gathered here today for your coronation, I thought I might offer counsel before taking on the responsibilities of your crown."

 _My uncle's crown_ , Kíli stubbornly corrected Thranduil, but didn't dare speak it out loud; his insistence that he should not be given the weight of his forefathers' legacy had been soundly rejected at every turn so far.

He was learning to keep his resentment to himself.

 _I'm going to turn into Uncle,_ he added to himself, before realizing that Thranduil's mouth was moving again and maybe it was best if he at least pretended to give a damn.

"...Prince Kíli?"

Kíli focused just soon enough to hear Thranduil prompt him with the full force of his gracious condescension. The young dwarf rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth, but met the elder elf's gaze and nodded tersely.

"Please forgive me, I have been given quite a lot of advice to consider these past few days. My head feels rather...full."

"Indubitably," Thranduil placidly agreed.

Kíli wondered what in Mahal "indubitably" even meant.

"I will wager, however, that the advice from one king to another is quite different from subjects to their ruler," Thranduil moved as fluidly as water, as he took the few steps to stand next to Kíli, who grudgingly turned as well to follow the elf's gaze over the battlements.

There was a delicate pause and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in his boots. Was he supposed to say something back? By Durin's beard, this was excruciatingly awkward.

"You have honored my people, Prince Kíli, with the return of our gems," Thranduil paused, as if considering his next words; Kíli continued to fidget. "You also honored us in your devotion to my Captain of the Guard."

Kíli froze and couldn't stop blinking up at the taller, pale-haired elf in sheer amazement. He really didn't know what to say now, but at least he had enough royal comportment drilled into him by Balin by now not to gape like a young dwarfling at Thranduil's startling proclamation.

"I witnessed your mourning on the battlefield," Thranduil did not return the dwarf's gaze; the elf stood as still as the stones around him, his icy gaze fixed firmly at Dale sprawling out before them. "And I pray your forgiveness of my intrusion in such a private moment. But, I speak of it only to tell you that I have witnessed such a scene long before and though I thought it impossible, I must admit that you have moved me to honor what was real."

Only then, did Thranduil turn his head and meet Kíli's stunned gaze. The elven king's face was as dispassionate as ever, as serene and unreadable as always. But, there was an unexpected compassion in his eyes that puzzled Kíli as much as it surprised him.

"I do not deign to know nor understand the ways of dwarves, but the ruling of a kingdom is not so different, I wager, between our kind. The exile of your people will have changed many things, Prince Kíli," Thranduil turned his head gracefully to consider the parapets in front of him and he even reached out a hand to run his slender fingers meaningfully over a jagged crack that ran from the top of one merlon, down to the very floor at their feet. "You will find that more than just these stones may have been broken."

Those cold, strange eyes captured Kíli's gaze for a final time.

"Learn from your history, Prince Kíli. And," the Elf paused delicately, his next words spoken slowly, as if they cost him. "And, also from mine. Do not rule solely from within your lonely halls. If you wish to honor your people and the memory of my Captain, then rebuild more than just what lays inside these ancient stones," Thranduil finally broke his gaze with Kíli and wordlessly invited him to turn and consider the halls and hallows yawning open beneath them. "You must ever be a king, with your vision both behind you and before you."


	2. A Dire Need

" _What was before, we see once more -_

 _Our kingdom, a distant light."_

" **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Abkân-nurt (Ab) 'Afkalm 24th, 2943 T.A.**

 _(Friday April 23rd)_

 _ **Erebor**_

* * *

Kíli was sprawled unceremoniously across the great oak chair that the Woodland elves had given to him as a coronation present. His dark eyes watched the heated debate raging down the length of the enormous, polished cherry-wood table, but he kept his own council for the moment. He fiddled his left thumb between forefinger and ring finger of the same hand, and ran a scarred knuckle across his teeth from time to time.

Balin had long ago give up the fight over Kíli's comportment when in private - the youngest crowned king of Durin's line stubbornly insisted on abiding by his own bad habits when he was behind closed doors. One thick calf was slung casually over one of the chair's intricately carved arms; one sturdy goat-hide boot bobbed unceasingly as Kíli kept his wordless watch. Every so often, the back of his boot would hit the oak chair with a solid _thwack_ , but Glóin was making such a fuss that no one noticed. His left knee kept time with his right boot, although his left foot was planted firmly on the freshly scrubbed granite beneath his sole. Kíli had propped his left elbow up on the corresponding arm-rest; his right arm was slung casually across his torso, his fingers curled loosely around the mug of Dale-crafted ale that he had placed between his legs.

The dark-haired dwarf was still dressed in his court finery, but he'd tossed his heavy woolen robe onto a nearby stool that wasn't being used. His matching blue over-tunic was still held securely around his waist by his broad, brown-leather belt, but Kíli had loosened the ties of his pale gray under-tunic so that his throat and upper chest could feel the cool nip of the deep mountain air. Such was the slightly disheveled look that he normally went with when his day of royal duties was concluded - it was the only part of the day where he felt like he could breath.

Stern Thorin and noble Fíli, Kíli was _not_. And when he started to suspect that any of his uncle's previous company began to forget that, Kíli went out of his way to remind them that he was king only under protest. The only compromise he honored was one he had struck with Balin a year and seven months before, moments before he had stepped out of the musty-smelling antechamber and started his straight-shouldered march down the length of the King's Hall. Before he took the crown of Erebor, Kíli swore on his brother's honor that he would keep any demonstrations of rebellion locked away behind closely guarded doors.

 _You can resent your fate all you want, laddie - you wouldn't be your uncle's kin if you didn'a_ , Balin had declared firmly, as he stood with his hands full of the weight of the crown he would soon put on Kíli's head. _But, never show your heart nor your thoughts. Y'have another battlefield to win, sire. It'll require an archer's focused gaze an' silent aim._

Kíli had decided that those were, without a doubt, the best words of advice he'd received over the whole matter of his sudden succession to Durin's throne. But, even with Balin's wealth of wisdom, Kíli had managed to make his first year and a half of rule an uninspiring one, to say the least. And, as was the case in the evening's heated discussion, it had been a rather _disastrous_ first year at that.

"...Glóin, you can shout all you want, but the fact still remains that we can'na make any progress whatsoever _without_ a master mason!" Dwalin finally managed to roar over the vociferous argument raging between his older brother and the red-headed dwarf in question.

Every voice around the table went as silent as their king, but there was a collective _huff_ of forcefully expelled air. After a few harsh moments of heavy breathing, Bofur threw his hands up in a startlingly uncharacteristic display of pessimism.

"Well, we've got ourselves a right pickle, then!" the usually good-natured engineer nearly knocked his iconic gray _**ushanka**_ clean off of his head, as his hands flew past his ears. "All o' our master smiths are now buried so far down into the deeps of this mountain that we can't even recover their bodies!"

Bofur's heavy gloved hands fell back down on top of the table with the muffled thump of cloth against wood. His eyes flashed from beneath his bushy eyebrows and his winsome (if hairy) face was contorted by a scowl of the likes no one sitting around the table had ever seen before.

It was Bofur's obvious frustration and angrily-flushed cheeks that prompted Kíli to finally sit up and join the debate. He swung his right leg around, to place both feet next to each other on the stone floor. With a casual shrug of his broad shoulders, the young king pushed his elbow off of the arm-rest and straightened his entire posture in the process. He set his half-empty wooden mug loudly down on top of the table in front of him and leaned forward in his seat, until his forearms rested on the cherry wood on either side of his drink.

The entire room went silent; all eyes turned toward their king and Kíli fought the urge to squirm. It was still difficult for him to accept the fact that when he so much as _sneezed_ , the whole mountain seemed to notice. For his whole life, he had been able to slip behind his brother's shadow when he didn't want to be noticed (and sometimes, he didn't even have to _want_ to be overshadowed by Fíli's presence, in order for others to forget him), but now the only shadow he could claim was his own. It was unsettling, even after so much time, but he continued obstinately forward in the discussion, despite his brief moment of discomfort.

"Now, more than ever, the facts are to the point - Dwalin is correct. We need a master mason. But, I dare say that Balin, Óin, Ori, and Bofur brought back with them the best that they could find," Kíli fingered the smooth, carved curve of his mug's handle. "And now they all lie dead."

He paused, his mind racing rapidly. His dark eyes turned toward Balin and he squinted against the light of the fire that flickered behind the elder dwarf's silhouette.

"But, we've only reached out to those of the dwarrow who still reside in the West," Kíli paused for a moment more and then slowly added, "What about the Houses in the East and the North?"

There was an almost echoing silence to his question and Kíli tried yet again not to fidget or otherwise reveal his sense of self-consciousness. He hated it when his advisers and close companions acted like this - like they didn't know how to answer to him. As it turned out, he had merely shocked them into silence (apparently, no one had expected him to have been listening during Balin's lectures about dwarrow history.)

"Well...yes," Balin finally answered, his voice low and betraying no small amount of amazement. "There are four dwarven Houses in the East. The Stiffbeards of the eastern Northern Wastes, the Stonefoots in the valleys of central _**Rhûn**_ , the Blacklocks of the deep southern hills, and the Ironfists of Rhûn's northeastern mountains."

"Wouldn't any one of those clans have master masons to spare?" Kíli spread his large hands open wide.

"The Stiffbeards _are_ master masons," it was Ori's turn to surprise everyone with his soft, hesitant response. "The sons of Thulin have long been lauded as masters of stone."

"Ori is correct," Óin interjected, his gray head nodding in agreement. "Not much is known about the Stiffbeards, but they contributed an entire battalion to your grandfather's cause during the war with the orcs. As I recall, they served mostly as scouts and engineers."

"Good strategists, Stiffbeards," Balin added softly; his brow was furrowed and his eyes distant as he turned over his mind for further memories. "They were the only House to bring and build siege weapons during the War. When a wall needed scaling or a portcullis broken open, the Stiffbeards were always leading the way. I recall one young dwarven lad - he couldn't have been more than 80 years old or so, just starting his craft. But he could look at a fortification and find its structural weakness in moments, from sight alone."

"They kept to themselves," Óin stroked his short beard thoughtfully, as he met Kíli's gaze across the length of the table. "They were a secretive, silent lot, the Stiffbeards. But, they were invaluable during our war with the Orcs and they left quite an impression on King Thorin, sire."

"They would not come to our aid, however, in taking back this very mountain," Balin lifted his head and looked up at the high stone ceiling above them, as if searching for each word he uttered. "At the Battle of Azanulbizar, all of Stiffbeards who fought alongside us were killed," the kindly-faced dwarf's eyes slid down toward Kíli's dark head and the two considered each other for a moment. "When their chief learned of the death toll, he rescinded his aid and we haven't heard a word from House of Thulin these 144 years since."

"Would they be willing to help us again?" Kíli tried not to sound too hopeful, but it crept into his voice nonetheless; he smothered a wince at the sound of his own youthfulness.

He had so much to learn. At least he was among trusted confidants, who would not think any lesser of him for grasping at straws.

"As long as we don't tell them why we're reaching out to them for help after nearly a century and a half of silence," Bofur sighed heavily. "If the loss of a whole battalion made them pull back their aid before, I shan't imagine that they'll be impressed to hear that we've managed to lose 174 masons in the span of ten minutes."

Kíli pushed an aggravated breath through his teeth and scrubbed both of his hands over his face. Very little had seemingly gone right during his first 18 months of rule and the very worst of it all had happened not two weeks earlier.

Smaug had paid absolutely no heed to such petty inconveniences as columns and load-bearing walls. Whole sections of Erebor had collapsed in the hundred-and-more years since Smaug had taken over, mostly from the great wyrm's complete disregard for the integrity of his lair. Things were not so bad deeper down in the mountain, near the mines, but the dwarves had quickly found that several key load-bearing structures had been compromised in Smaug's searches for food and treasure. One area in particular had been given the masons and engineers nothing but constant trouble - it was an important part of the mines from a structural standpoint, as it had supported a considerable portion of the upper halls and levels. Several key columns had been knocked out and alarmingly large chunks of the supporting mountain wall in that area had been gauged out. Given the fact that several tunnels had been carved out by Smaug's spear-like claws and that quite a large number of broken remains had been found, the dwarves concluded that the area had caught Smaug's interest, because of the refugees that had either been trapped there, or had been hiding in the tunnels in the hope of escaping once the dragon had brought his rampage to an end.

The area was dubbed "the eastern interlock", in recognition of its importance as a foundation for what became homes, streets, shops, and crafting stores in the levels up above it. Immediately below the "interlock" were three large smithies that promised a considerable production once they could be reignited and used. The potential of those forges, however, would never be discovered.

Kíli was no mason nor engineer, so he couldn't really say what had happened, but one morning a fortnight before, the entire mountain and most of Dale was awakened by the roar of a thunderous collapse in the deeps. The death toll had reached into the two hundreds, at least - a mixture of masons, miners, and engineers, who had been at work on their shift that morning and families that had begun to live in the levels up above the interlock. All deaths were deep losses, but Kíli had discovered that it was harder to address the loss of women and children - especially to a hard-pressed kin who valued the future of their race, as it was tenuous in even the best of times because of the scarcity of female dwarrow. The families had moved into the apartments and housing levels just days before, on the blessing of the head master mason, who had vowed before king and kin that the interlock had been stabilized sufficiently to justify the habitation of the levels above it.

Kíli also discovered that it was hard to blame a dead dwarf. Technically, the tragedy of the eastern interlock was on the chief mason's head. But, since that had been caved in as effectively as the eastern section of the mines, the blame fell quite squarely on his own broad shoulders. Just fourteen days and already Kíli was becoming uncomfortably aware of his plummeting reputation among the Blue Mountain and Iron Hill dwarves.

To be fair, most of the grumbling was coming from the Iron Hill side, as the memory of watching Kíli grow up among the Blue Mountain dwarves inspired a deeper level of loyalty to him. Kíli was a little wounded by the lack of support from the Iron Hill families, especially since he felt that he had established a rather decent rapport with his kin, Lord Dáin. But, apparently, the rumblings of dissatisfaction were loud enough that Dáin had showed up on the plain between Erebor and Dale two mornings earlier. He had come to give his struggling king council, but that was between them - ostensibly, Dáin had arrived with an Iron Hill retinue in order to "show support and solidarity with the kin of Erebor at this troubling time."

Dáin had explained that things did not look so good for the young king - at least, not in relation to his royal career. There were doubts about his youth - many had wondered if Dáin should have been appointed regent until Kíli had "matured". The young king was called into question over his appearance and he himself had heard the whispers of "no-beard" or "the beardless king" as he walked the halls of his ravaged mountain. Never mind that he had soundly declared that he would not grow out his beard until he had moved past his mourning. He had come under fire for "taking too long" to "set aside his grief" and for "dawdling" when it came to taking a wife. His love for Tauriel wasn't common knowledge (thankfully; Kíli could only imagine what his doubters would make of _that_ ), but many were claiming that he didn't care for dwarrow lasses (which wasn't untrue, unfortunately).

Of course, from where Kíli was sitting, it certainly seemed like the dwarrow lasses didn't care much for _him_ , either. He wasn't an idiot, especially since he assuaged what he could of his innate restlessness by slipping along the halls at quiet times, disguised as a common dwarf going about his business. He'd heard the opinions of the young dwarrow maids who currently called Erebor home: the kindest judgment he had heard about himself so far, was that "the king was homely". He was, apparently, too "tall" and too "thin", in addition to the already mentioned shortcomings of "young" and "beardless". (The latter not being altogether fair, he thought, since he _did_ have a beard - just, not much of one. He hadn't let his beard grow out any longer than it had been the day he buried his uncle and brother.) In fact, the general consensus among the Erebor lasses (insofar as Kíli could determine) was that the only positive physical feature he had to offer was his _hair_.

At least the lasses liked that much. But, it certainly wasn't enough to catch the eye of a wife.

The loss of the eastern interlock and the further destruction of the levels above it had only succeeded in cementing his incompetency in the eyes of those who would desire the throne of Erebor for themselves. Kíli had been in talks, negotiations, and burial ceremonies late into each early morning for the past two weeks. He was well beyond the point where he wanted to throw his hands up in despair and tell Erebor to run its own damn self.

Kíli took a deep breath and tuned back into the conversation at hand. He knew only too well by now where such internal lines of thought would take him and there was no time to indulge in his own self-pity. They _had_ to reach a solution by the end of the week, or they would risk losing the cooperation of the Iron Hill dwarrow, despite Dáin's personal efforts to rally support to Kíli's cause.

"...The Stiffbeards might be willing to help. Or they might not. Really, it's quite irrelevant. They live deep within the Northern Wastes, to the east of us, and it would take too long for us to travel there, negotiate with them, and travel back. By the time all that had transpired, we would most likely lose _all_ support we have among our kin - even Dáin's, as stout-hearted as he is," Balin spoke with all the understated wisdom and common sense that had made him indispensable to Kíli, and to Thorin before him.

There was deep pause, during which Kíli sighed heavily again and raked weary fingers through his thick hair. It had tangled slightly over the course of the day and his hand caught on a few strands just beside the heavy King's Braid that rested against his right cheek. He had a corresponding braid on the left side and as he jerked his hand through the tangle with a shake of his hand and head, both braids moved in tandem across the strong line of his stubbled jaw. Kíli made a slight face and glanced at total random over at Ori...and then stopped to stare at the look of absolute concentration that was scrunching up the young scribe's face. The king then glanced over his shoulder, in the direction that Ori was squinting, and then back over at the other dwarf.

"Ori?" Bofur, who had also noticed the faraway look on the scribe's face, leaned across the table and waved his hand in front of Ori eyes.

"Y'know...Dale's been lookin' rather put together lately," Ori abruptly focused on Bofur; he then turned sharp eyes toward Kíli, who quirked an eyebrow back at him. "'As anyone else noticed?"

"Well..now that y'mention it..." Glóin's ruddy face lit up with a dawning realization that was shared by everyone else gathered at the table. "The outer wall's been rebuilt since _**'Afiglêb**_ , by the looks of it."

A rare ghost of a smile turned up the barest edges of Kíli's lips. He picked up his mug, tipped his head back, and took a long, hearty pull of the nut-ale he'd brought into the Council Room from dinner. He slammed the tankard back down on the table as he swallowed; after a rough swipe of the back of his hand across his mouth, Kíli leaned forward toward his company.

"Perhaps Bard's found a master mason among the men," Óin spoke out loud what everyone else was suddenly hoping.

"We'll take what we can," Kíli snorted.

"A...Man?" Dwalin scowled.

"If my choices are a Man or mutiny, I'll go with a Man," Kíli gave his Captain of the Guard a droll roll of his eyes.

He slapped a bare hand down on the polished table top and finally leaned back in his oaken chair. His dark eyes tangled conspiratorially with Bofur's and there was the passing suggestion of a smile across his mouth for a second time that night.

"Perhaps I should pay a visit to our friend, Bard the Bowman and see if he's had success where we have not."

* * *

 **References**

 _ **Ushanka**_ \- Quite literally, the name of the style of hat that Bofur wears. It's a Russian word, but sounded sufficiently "dwarvish" enough that I didn't bother trying to change it.

 _ **Rhûn**_ \- The gigantic, almost-continent-sized country to the east of the countries/places of Middle Earth (Gondor, Rohan, the Shire, etc). Tolkien didn't really delve much into the history or culture of Rhûn, but from what I've gathered, it's huge and has an Asian/Middle-Eastern/Russian feel to it, depending on which part of the country one is in. It reaches from sub-arctic-like geography in the far north (where the Stiffbeards live, incidentally) to the desert in the far south (where the Blacklocks live). I imagine the area that the Stonefoots live as steppes or large plains.

 _ **'Afiglêb**_ – I have plotted the entire dwarrow calendar on a blank calendar template (which is a great, detailed pain, by the way). What I've discovered is that the same day each year is not necessarily in the same month... The dwarrow calendar is based on a lunar calendar, so the dates/months have a tendency to shift around. For the purposes of the story, however, 'Afiglêb would be December 21st – January 18th. The dwarrow New Year falls in October, so the months count up from there. 'Afiglêb is also known as the "Third Month".


	3. An Arrow To the Knee

_"Fiery mountain beneath the moon;_

 _The words unspoken, we'll be there soon."_

 **"Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Thatrnurt (Tht) 'Afkalm 25th**

 _(Saturday April 24th)_

 _ **Dale**_

* * *

"...The anchors should go here and here," Kivi Journeyman stabbed the blueprints unfurled on the makeshift table in front of her with a stubby finger. "This'll give the arch the best foundation to hold the weight of the opening."

A warm late-spring wind ruffled the soft hairs that had escaped the tight braid trailing down the length of the dwarf-maid's back. She absently reached up and tucked a number of loose strands behind her left ear, as she scowled down at the building plans scattered hodge-podge in front of her. A piece of blunt writing charcoal was tucked behind her right ear and had smudged some of her gold-red hair in that area a smoky black. Her ice-blue eyes never strayed from the rough-hewn boards that had been balanced on top of two barrels of aging beer - what sufficed for a workman's table in lieu of anything better. The bits of parchment, upon which a variety of blueprints had been meticulously drawn, had to be weighted down with small, round stones so they didn't blow away in the warm breeze.

Kivi's companions - a mixed assortment of men of various ages - had become used to her quirks after working with her for the last four months and didn't take offense to the fact that the unexpectedly _female_ master mason in their midst had a tendency to talk to her parchment and stones, rather than to those who worked under her instruction. It was a sign of her intense concentration and a grudging sort of respect had been given to her over time.

"Seppä just finished making three dozen anchor bolts. I've sent Leiren to fetch them," Kivi's forehand, Artur, piped up in anticipation of her next question.

"And Midge the carpenter told me this mornin' that he's finished carvin' the last of the arch-beams needed fer the passage," another one of the gathered crew piped up and Kivi glanced up with a rare grin of approval.

"Excellent! At this pace, we'll finish the southern inner wall by midsummer."

She opened her mouth to continue speaking, but before she could even take a breath, a crash, an ear-splitting shriek, and a cacophony of alarmed shouts tore the otherwise peaceful early afternoon air.

"You wicked little _beasts_!" the dismally familiar voice of the local weasel, Alfrid, rose shrilly from the direction of the armory.

There were some more squeals, shrieks, and several foreboding crashes that echoed through Dale's lower courtyard. A deep voice roared above the chaos and Kivi straightened her back with a twitch of her eyebrows. She knew that voice and the harsh, foreign words of the High North that cut angrily through the unseen chaos. And while the others gathered round did _not_ in fact, know what was said, they knew enough to catch two certain names that had become quite infamous about Dale as of late.

"Inkeri! Kalevi!" Kivi's cousin, Jarvi, had a voice that reverberated against the stones; the young mason rather wondered if he could be heard all the way in the Greenwood.

His dire, unspoken warnings were accompanied by several more crashes, the sounds of a scuffle, and then pattering feet. About three minutes later, Jarvi appeared, frog-marching a rather bemused Bain, son of Bard, in front of him.

"Well, here's this one," Jarvi started talking long before he had reached the group of masons and workmen; everyone heard him anyway.

Jarvi put one thick-fingered paw in the back of Bain's back and shoved him (not roughly, though) toward the group of men (and one female dwarf) who were all trying not to laugh at the way the tall youth was being manhandled by a stout half-dwarf that came up only to the young man's shoulder.

"Seems young Master Bain let Keri 'n Kal have a bow and a quiver of arrows 'tween them," Jarvi let go of Bain (who looked appropriately ashamed) and hooked his thumbs in the colorful cloth belt tied around his thick waist. "They've managed to shoot Alfrid," the full, bright-red mustache framing Jarvi's mouth twitched as he met Kivi's eyes; she lifted _both_ eyebrows now and the two fought hard not to grin at each other like idiots.

"Oh?" Kivi cleared her throat and squinted her eyes in a gesture that she hoped was intimidating (and not an obvious effort keep from snickering like a dwarfling).

"Aye," Jarvi nodded sagely, his mustache trembling the whole while. "In the knee."

"Well," Kivi had a coughing fit in earnest, as she accidentally tried to laugh and breathe through her mouth at the same time.

After she had gathered her composure, she glanced up at the human boy who practically towered over her.

 _He does have his father's height,_ Kivi thought absently.

"Master Bain," she said as she pulled her shoulders back and placed her hands squarely on her softly rounded hips.

"Yes, _**Mestari**_ ," Bain mumbled, appropriately ashamed of himself; he clearly didn't want to, but he met Kivi's stern gaze bravely. [" _Master_ "]

"I frankly don't know whether to punish you and my young charges," her mouth wiggled dangerously along the corners. "Or to _praise_ the three of you."

The light in Bain's eyes turned hopeful and he lifted his head just a wee bit in eager anticipation of mercy. Kivi didn't _dare_ look at Jarvi and she pressed her full lips into the firmest scowl she could manage.

"So, I'll let you _father_ decide."

Bain's shoulders dropped about two whole inches and Kivi scrubbed a hand over her mouth as she tried not to smile. She finally risked a glance toward Jarvi, who was thankfully straight-faced, although his pale eyes twinkled with his usual good humor.

"Go find the other two mischief-makers, Cousin," Kivi casually beckoned at Bain as she spoke, motioning for him to bend over to her level. "I'll go take this one," she grabbed the youth's ear in a firm grip between thumb and forefinger. "To the Bowman."

* * *

Meanwhile, the Bowman greeted a "disguised" King Under the Mountain with a back-thumping hug and a large tankard of Dale's most excellent nut-ale.

"Kíli!" Bard held the dwarf out at arm's length and grinned widely, his teeth flashing in the sunlight that poured generously through the nearby window. "It's been a while, old friend!"

"Since _**Khebabnurtamrâg**_ ," Kíli didn't smile, but his eyes were warm and one corner of his mouth tugged softly upward as he met the Man's gaze. "It's been busy under the mountain." [" _Forge Day Fest_ "]

"So I've heard," Bard nodded, suddenly solemn as he let go of Kíli's muscular shoulders. "My deepest condolences to the families who have suffered from the cave-in a fortnight ago."

"Thank you," Kíli said the only thing he could really think of _to_ say; he swallowed heavily and slapped Bard a few times on the shoulder, before collapsing into the nearest wooden-slat chair.

"Rough times, then?" Bard asked sympathetically after a few moments of appropriate silence.

The soon-to-crowned king of Dale sat down on a stool across from Kíli; Bofur, who was the dwarven king's usual partner-in-crime when he decided to sneak about without a crown upon his head, settled down on a few sacks of ground flour in the corner. Bard's Hall - the long-house style building that temporarily housed the Bowman and his family - was full of light and fresh air. All the windows and doors were open and only a gently smoldering fire was lit in the far end of the narrow home, over which quietly simmered a pot of what smelled like rabbit stew. It was a comfortable, well-worn place and Kíli felt his shoulders (which were always tense with the weight of Erebor upon them) slowly begin to relax. He glanced over at the Man he had come to call "friend" in the last year and a half and sighed heavily.

"Always, it seems," Kíli reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose in an expression of mixed exhaustion and frustration. "Dwarves are an unforgiving and contentious folk."

Bard couldn't help a sharp bark of laughter at that. He chuckled heartily into his ale for several moments, before glancing sideways at Kíli with a grin.

" An ironic thing to say, my friend. You're not so easy to deal with yourself," the Man's dark eyes twinkled merrily over the rim of his tankard. "For starters, you don't even possess the decency to die when pierced through with orc steel or Morgul poison."

Kíli snorted; he enjoyed Bard's dry humor and took the Bowman's words with an easy shrug of his broad shoulders. Enough time had passed, too, so that he didn't feel his heart ache quite so terribly at the mention of his first close brush with death, which he always associated with the memory of Tauriel standing above him, lit in starlight. His heart still clenched tightly, but with the frequency with which he had thought of the beautiful elf-maid in the last 18 months, Kíli was starting to find that the memory of her no longer brought tears to his eyes. In fact, he was starting to forget the details of her face - the realization left him feeling pensive and achingly bereft. The two sat in silence again; the only sound was Bofur's stirrings in the corner, as he quietly refilled his pipe and sparked a flint against the tightly packed leaves in the rough-carved bowl cupped within his weathered palm.

"So, what brings you to my hall this fine day?" Bard finally nudged the conversation along; he eyed the dwarf he had learned to think of somewhat fondly as a young brother, or a cousin, perhaps. "Not that I don't welcome your company, but you usually only come for festivals these days."

"Aye, I suppose I do," Kíli glanced at Bard out of the corner of his eye and drummed up a weak smile of apology. "Don't come much during the day, either, I'm afraid. Wouldn't do for a dwarven king to be seen seeking advice from a Man."

The young dwarf couldn't keep the creep of bitterness in his voice. He resented the fact that his every move was watched - often by eyes that weren't altogether friendly. Usually, if he was seeking council, he came to speak to Bard once the darkness had set - which was easy to do in the winter, when the sun set behind the Lonely Mountain well before supper. It was harder to visit at any reasonable hour during the summer, at least, in an unofficial capacity.

Kíli had left his crown with Balin and had traveled through one of the service tunnels at the base of the Mountain with Bofur, shortly after his afternoon repast. The young king had his old blue tunic on - the one he had worn while part of Thorin's proud Company. The hood was pulled up over his face, his hair braided down his back, so that it could be hidden beneath his clothes. He wore a nondescript over-tunic that was embroidered with a demure gray thread in an angular, knot-work pattern not associated with any that he usually wore. There were no rings on his fingers, no royal seal or indication of his station. His throat and hands were bare and Kíli reveled in the freedom his borrowed clothes bought him. No one - not Man, not dwarf - had given him a second look as he rode Nori's shaggy-haired pony into Dale with a similarly dressed Bofur at his side.

Kíli had eyed Dale's repaired outer walls as he had approached and what Ori had said was true - the city's outermost defenses had been seamlessly repaired. The need for information was of the utmost important to Kíli's continued control of the crown, so he had ridden straight to Bard's Hall without notice or hesitation.

"I take it there is advice I can offer you today?" Bard graciously overlooked Kíli's embittered reference to the stubborn prejudice of his many kin.

"Mmm," Kíli nodded slowly; he didn't look at Bard as he spoke, but instead settled his gaze toward the nearest window, out of which he could see the crenelation of a nearby guard tower. "Your outer walls are looking well repaired, Master Bard. We of Erebor have been wondering about the secret to your sudden success."

"Ah…" it was more of an exhalation of breath than a word, but Kíli gave Bard a suspicious glance; the Man sounded as if he had expected such a question from the dwarven king.

It was now Bard's turn to not look Kíli in the eye; his gaze fell down into the depths of his tankard and the Bowman cleared his throat before continuing, as if suddenly nervous. Kíli could feel his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline in surprise - Bard was never anything but forthright. Seeing such hesitation and...bemusement?...from him was something quite novel.

"Well, I must confess that the Men of Dale were presented with an unexpected bit of luck in the new year -"

Bard opened his mouth to continue, but a voice cut him off so loudly that Bofur jumped and dropped his pipe with a muffled oath and an undignified clatter.

"Master Bard!" the voice – a _feminine_ voice, Kíli noted with mild surprise - sailed sharply through the open door as an accompanying shadow appeared and lengthened between the frame.

Bard's angular face broke out into a wide smile, which he turned toward Kíli. The two considered each other for a moment, before Bard shrugged and jerked a thumb toward the door and the stout figure who abruptly appeared, flanked by two other forms of drastically different heights.

"That would be our secret of sudden success," Bard's smile turned a bit sheepish and Kíli narrowed his eyes disapprovingly at his friend. "Our master mason, sir - Kivi Journeyman."

* * *

 **References**

 _ **Khebabnurtamrâg**_ \- "Forge Day Fest". According to Dwarrow Scholar, this feast is sacred to dwarrow smiths. It also signals the end of winter, at sunset. For the purpose of this story, Khebabnurtamrâg falls on February 6th, **or** the 19th day of the Fourth Month.


	4. Passing Judgment

" _For home a song that echoes on  
And all who find us will know the tune."_

" **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Thatrnurt (Tht) 'Afkalm 25th**

 _(Saturday April 24th)_

 _ **Dale**_

* * *

Kíli would long remember his first impression of Kivi Journeyman. He stood up as Bard's "unexpected bit of luck" stepped further into the long-hall, dragging along her two companions by their ears. He couldn't see much of anything except her silhouette at first, lit as she was from behind by the high afternoon sun. There was a halo around her head, though, that puzzled him for the few moments that it took for her to step into the darker room and to come into better focus. He stood as she stomped resolutely toward the table in front of the two men and when she stopped just an arm length or two away from them, Kíli realized that what he had mistaken for a halo was the light of the sun on her hair.

Kivi had a veritable _mane_ of long tresses the color of freshly polished copper, a brilliant mixture of gold and rose that gleamed even in the dimmer light cast through the window. Her hair was braided sensibly down the length of her back and pulled away from her face, but even that practicality couldn't hide the fact that Mahal had blessed her with a beautiful, wild array of locks.

Her eyes were a brilliant blue, the color of aquamarines, Kíli fancied. Eyes, Kíli had heard Gandalf say once, were mirrors of the soul; if that were so, then he could already tell that this dwarrow-maid possessed a keen intellect and a clear conscience. She met the King's gaze head-on, never looking away, never dipping her head demurely, never fluttering her eyelashes at him. For his part, he was shocked to find a dwarf-maid in the Bowman's house, but he hoped he hid it.

Her piercing eyes finally flickered over toward Bard and Kíli took the opportunity to consider the features of her face. It was oval-shaped, broad along the brow in the style of dwarves, but her jawline brought her face smoothly to a proportionate, if smaller-than-average chin. Kivi had almost a button-like nose, straight and unbroken, and much smaller in size than most noses Kíli had eyed on the dwarrow-maids living now under the mountain. He then noticed (with a sudden, unintended rise of an eyebrow) that Kivi did not have a beard, or facial hair of any sort, except for a pair of gently arched eyebrows that were a shade darker than her hair.

She was _definitely_ not a dwarf-maid of his kin, either of Erebor or of the Blue Mountains. He eyed her smooth cheeks for a few moments longer than he probably should have, as he slowly pieced all the aspects of her appearance together. With a jolt, he realized that she was not, most likely, a dwarf-maid of the Iron Hills, either. If the beardless chin didn't fully hint at an origin not of the West, then her clothes _did_.

She wore a tunic of sapphire blue, that was significantly shorter than any worn by the dwarves of the West. It topped just above her hips and was cinched at the waist by a handsome, studded leather belt, upon which hung the pouches and loops of a workman's tools. The tunic's collar was stiff and high; it brushed the bottom of her jaw along the sides and looked as if it were meant to be clasped shut in the front. Kivi wore it open, though, revealing pale, freckled skin along the curve of her neck and the top of her sternum. The tunic had long sleeves that Kivi had rolled up to just above her elbows, revealing surprisingly muscled forearms and a much lighter dusting of hair along the top of her skin than was normal for most dwarrow. The tunic collar and bottom hem were embroidered with a bright red thread and a few faint weavings of gold.

It was simple garb, accompanied by sturdy brown trews and a pair of chunky-toed, black leather boots that had very clearly seen their fair share of hard work. Yet, despite its simplicity, Kivi's attire looked almost extravagant to Kíli, for all its bright colors and brilliant hues - the dwarrow of Durin's House kept to understated, deep, earthy colors. Next to him and Bofur, Kivi was as cheerfully attired as the riotously blooming landscape outside.

" _ **Hei, veli**_!" the deepest voice Kíli had ever heard drew his eyes swiftly from Kivi to the space behind her. [" _Hello, brother_!"]

A burly human man stood behind her, the struggling legs of what appeared to be a dwarfling slung over his shoulder threatened to smack him in the forehead. The Man seemed singularly unconcerned by the matter; his eyes, which were the same crystal-clear blue as Kivi's, were crinkled up in the corners in a smile of genuine pleasure.

" _ **Tervetuloalänteen**_!" more foreign words tumbled out of the man's broad mouth, which was framed by an impossibly bright red mustache that would have made Glóin green with envy. _"Which family calls you kin?_ " [" _Welcome to the West!"_ ]

Kíli shook his head dully, his brow furrowed deeply in confusion. He had never heard such a language before in his life, but based on the Man's immediate friendliness, he had apparently mistaken Kíli as someone from his own region. The young king opened his mouth to respond, but then promptly shut it, as he squinted, perplexed, at the newcomer. He had no idea how to respond.

"Jarvi, he's not of the North," a softer voice answered in Kíli's stead and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was the Journeyman speaking.

She had glanced over her shoulder at the Man who was only a mere head taller than her. She shook her head, as confusion settled across her companion's face.

"No?" he shot Kíli a puzzled look and no one could miss the way the Man's eyes dropped over the length of the king's body and then back up at his face.

"No, he's one Durin's sons. Look at how he dresses," Kivi's eyes flickered over to Kíli and she smiled apologetically. "Please forgive my cousin's mistake, Master Dwarf, but you _do_ have the look of the North about you," her eyes traveled the same path that Jarvi's had just moments before and Kíli had to stifle the absurd desire to puff out his chest. "You have the beard of an unmarried man and you're much taller than most of Durin's folk we've seen."

Kíli blinked at that and it took him a moment to process what she was saying. " _Not of the North_ " she had told her cousin.

"You're not from…" his voice trailed off as something Kivi had said clicked - he glanced from her, to Jarvi – who looked for all the world like a very short Man – and then back to her. "Wait...your _cousin_?"

Jarvi answered, with a conciliatory nod of his head toward the flustered Kíli.

"I think before we engage ourselves in a discussion about our relation, we should probably explain to Master Bard why you have his eldest child's ear in a death grip, _**serkku**_." ["Cousin."]

Bard chuckled at this. He had struck quite a firm friendship with Kivi in the months since the new year - some of this was because she was a dwarf of unquestionable honor and was true to her word. She had shown up in Dale claiming that she was a master mason and her work proved the great worth of her word. They had also become friends in response to the almost-instant rapport between Kivi's dwarfling charges and Bard's three children. All five of them were, at any given time, thick as thieves. The dwarflings - Keri and Kal - were exceedingly hard to dislike and Bard thought the same of Kivi. The two adults had bonded over the inevitable consequences of their childrens' shenanigans and this was not the first time that Kivi had marched into Bard's Hall with one of the Bowmen's children in tow.

He had merely raised his eyebrows in resigned curiosity, when he had recognized Bain bent over at Kivi's side, his ear firmly captured between her nimble-fingers. The conversation had naturally swerved toward Kíli, since he was the stranger in the room, and Bard had patiently waited for the focus to shift back toward Kivi's recalcitrant captives. He was still quite thankful, though, when Jarvi brought the conversation around - the Bowman was most interested in hearing what his only son had managed to do _this_ time around.

"Ah, right," Kivi finally tore her gaze away from Kíli and turned her head to consider young Bain, whose face was on the same level as hers.

He met her gaze out of the corner of his eye and grimaced. Clearly uncomfortable, Bain had nevertheless submitted to Kivi's motherly instincts and while being forced to march to his fate bent over, he had endured it with a stoicism worthy of due respect. Kivi nodded, as if to herself, and let go of his ear.

"Master Bain apparently didn't consider the consequences of letting my niece and nephew have a bow and quiver between them," Kivi now turned her head at her other captive, who was considerably less resigned as Bain.

Kíli eyed the dwarfling with interest - by all appearances, it was a boy, with wildly tousled hair the color of cream. The dwarfling was dressed in a green tunic the same shade as Kivi's jewel-toned blue. The tunic was of the same style as the master mason's - belted around the waist and flared out at the bottom just beneath said belt, high along the hips. His tunic, however, was short-sleeved and edged in a mixture of white and orange embroidery. It was also a little worn in places and patched; an altered hand-me-down, which was a prudent decision, given the dirt smudged across the young fellow's chest, arms, hands, knees, and nose.

The dwarfling (who didn't have to bend over to be held in Kivi's iron grasp) glared defiantly at the room at large. His bright eyes - the color of jade - settled on Kíli and flared wide in recognition. The King stifled a sigh; he had hoped to escape the pending introduction to Kivi without having to reveal his true identity. But, that was clearly not going to happen, if the little dwarfling had any chance whatsoever to share his revelation. He had to wonder, though, how the dwarfling knew...

"Aren't you in charge of the armory today?" Bard brought Kíli back to the present and he looked quickly away from Kivi's nephew to follow the course of the conversation.

Bard had his arms folded over his chest and was eyeing Bain sternly from down the long length of his nose. Bain shifted uncertainly on his feet and admitted quietly -

"Yes, sir."

"And you just _gave_ two under-aged dwarves a bow and arrow?"

Bain's head bowed down toward the swept wooden floor beneath him, his expression duly apologetic.

"Yes, sir."

"Which one of you barbarians asked Master Bain for a bow?" Kivi interjected with a fierce look from her nephew at her side, to the other dwarfling now fidgeting next to Jarvi.

There was a long pause, before Jarvi's young charge piped up.

"It was me, _**Täti**_ ," the little trouble-maker looked up from the floor and Kíli was shocked to see that the second dwarfling looked _exactly_ like the first. [" _Aunt/Auntie_ "]

 _Twins!_ he realized with a jolt; twins were exceedingly rare among the dwarrow.

To the best of his knowledge, a multiple birth hadn't occurred in Durin's line for over 200 years. It was hard enough for a dwarrow mother to give birth to _one_ dwarfling, never mind _two_. At once.

Something else Kivi had said fell into place.

 _She said 'niece' and 'nephew'..._ Kíli narrowed his eyes as he looked from one dwarfling to the other.

While it was true that dwarven men and women looked quite a lot alike (and especially so before their beards started to grow), the identical garb between the two dwarflings – miniature replicas of their aunt's clothing, minus the workman's tools – was puzzling, to say the least. On rare occasions, Kíli had seen adult dwarrow-dams, like Kivi, wearing trousers when they were in the mines or at the forge. But, dwarrow daughters were so rare that Kíli had never known a dwarrow-dam to _not_ dress her girl in skirts, as a way to proudly differentiate her rare daughter from all the boys that were sure to be tumbling about.

"No, I think not," Kivi finally broke the contemplative silence that had fallen on the room.

She looked sharply over at the dwarfling at her side and frowned disapprovingly.

"It was Keri, wasn't it?" she arched an eyebrow at said young dwarf in question.

Keri had the decency to finally bow his head and shuffle his feet nervously across the floor. He scowled at his bare feet (yet another surprise for Kíli) for several long minutes before finally muttering a petulant:

" _ **Kyllä, rouva**_."

"In Westron, Keri," Kivi prompted patiently; the dwarfling huffed impatiently, but obeyed.

"Yes, ma'am."

"'Yes, ma'am' _what_?"

"I was the one to ask Bain for a bow," Keri looked as he wanted to throw a tantrum; his face flushed bright red and he was clearly staring at the floor, not as an act of submission, but as an act of refusal to look his aunt in the eye.

Kíli felt the corners of his mouth twitch; he was strongly reminded of himself at that age, as he was a far more dedicated rapscallion than Fíli ever was. The thought of his older brother, however, made Kíli's heart feel as if were breaking into yet another jagged piece and his desire to smile faded.

"Bain, why would you do such a thing?" Bard interjected with an aggravated pinch of his nose.

"I told them to just shoot arrows into the old hay bale in the corner of the training ground. I didn't know Alfrid was there," Bain risked a furtive glance at his father and winced.

"Alfrid?" Bard dropped his hand from his nose and started, nonplussed, at his son, then at Kivi. "What does _Alfrid_ have to do with anything?"

"'Fraid one of our little dwarflings shot the ole' bastard," Jarvi answered cheerfully; he shook the shoulder of the boy (girl?) next to him.

"Where?" Bard asked faintly.

"In the knee," the red-headed Man all but chirped; Bard sighed heavily and hid his face behind one large hand.

Kíli chewed the inside of his cheek with a particular vigor, in order to keep from laughing. There was an accompanying snort-fit from the corner where Bofur had been sitting quietly out of the way; Kíli didn't dare look at his companion's face, or else he'd start laughing out loud. He'd had the misfortune of meeting Alfrid at the Midwinter's Festival, a few months before. The King's interaction with the local coward was brief, but it was long enough for Kíli to think that Alfrid quite _deserved_ an arrow to the knee.

"Which one of you shot him, anyway?" Kivi demanded a bit roughly; Kíli glanced at her and felt his lips twitch again when he saw that she was desperately trying not to giggle.

There was a long, guilty pause. Finally, Keri squirmed and offered up a surprisingly meek:

"Me."

Kivi rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, as if beseeching Mahal.

"Of course it was you, Keri," her tone was one of completely contrived disappointment (not that young Keri would understand that); the dwarfling's shoulders dropped at the sound of her aunt's disapproval.

"Kal," Bard abruptly focused his attention at the mostly-silent dwarfling held tight against Jarvi's side.

"Yes, sir?" Kal's eyes went wide and round.

"What was your part in all of this?"

"Uh..." Kal looked down and kicked an imaginary speck of dust on the floor. "Um...well...uh...I kind of dared..." here he swallowed hard and stoutly refused to look at anything but the very tips of his dirty toes. "I...uh...dared Keri."

"Mahalpreserve us," Kivi rolled her eyes toward the heavens; Bard coughed, as if to cover a laugh.

"What'd you say to your sister, Kal?" Jarvi demanded in his distinctive rumble.

"He told me that I couldn't never shoot as good as _him_!" Keri jumped in before her brother could answer; she pointed right at Kíli and the young King could feel the tips of his ears turn red.

Thank the Father that they were hidden by his abundance of dark brown hair. He met the dwarfling's gaze; her chin was proudly raised and something like tears glimmered in the corners of her pale eyes. Clearly, she had been rather deeply affected by Kal's claims - although, Kíli couldn't quite figure out how she knew about his archery to be compared to him. He was also still trying to piece together the abrupt revelation that Keri was a _girl_.

 _She looks exactly like her brother!_ his head was spinning wildly as he eyed Kal, and then Keri, closely; twins were quite the novelty to him.

Kivi's voice - suddenly soft and wary - drew Kíli's eyes away from the dwarflings. The two stared at each other and the suspicion on the master mason's face was rather alarming.

"Who's 'him', Keri?" the look in Kivi's eyes, though, told Kíli that she already knew what the answer was.

He decided to take the situation in hand; the broad-shouldered dwarf stepped forward and inclined his head at Kivi in courtesy.

"King Kíli Thorinkin," one of his long bangs fell into his face and he shook his head slightly to coax it back to the side by his left ear. "It seems young Keri has sharp eyes," he glanced at Kivi's disapproving face (which rather confused him), to the dwarfling's wide eyes. "An indispensable quality in an archer."

The dwarfling's face lit up like a rare jewel in torchlight. Kivi, however, seemed to determined to disregard her niece's excitement and Kíli's existence. Now scowling, she turned stiffly toward Bard and asked what his verdict was for the children's actions.

If Bain was startled by the abrupt change in conversation, he didn't show it. He reached up and stroked his mustache thoughtfully for a moment, before pronouncing his judgment.

"Bain," he addressed his own son first. "Since you seem to think that weapons are toys, to be handed to children without supervision, I'm going to put you in charge of the youth combat training. I want you down on the training yard every day - sunrise to sunset. I do not necessarily discourage your intent to encourage Keri's interest," his eyes flickered toward the younger child and for just a second, Bard's eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. "And you were right to not leave your post in the armory. But, you should have said 'no', or told them to find an older child or an adult to oversee their activities. I would have gladly helped Keri, had one of you thought to ask - I expect you to do the same from now on."

"Yes, sir," Bain lifted his head and met his father's dark eyes with a meek nod of acceptance.

Bard nodded back and added -

"Go back and finish your duties in the armory today. I expect you on the training yard tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir," Bain nodded one more time and then beat a hasty retreat out of the long-house's door.

That left Keri and Kal, who both stared at Bard with no small mixture of trepidation.

"Keri," the little dwarf quivered a bit as she was sternly addressed. "You will help Katrikki tend to Alfrid until he is healed. I admire your fighting spirit, as I admire it in your aunt," Bard softened his words with a slight smile at Kivi. "But, you need to learn that any weapon - even a bow and arrow - can cause harm, most especially if used thoughtlessly."

Keri looked less than thrilled at her punishment; she even looked, for a minute, like she was going to complain about having to help Alfrid. But, then she glanced up at her aunt, whose expression all but dared the dwarfling to protest, and the young girl lowered her head in defeat.

"Yes, Master Bard."

"Go now," Kivi nudged her gently toward the door. "Katrikki is more than likely already seeing to him at the _**chirurgeon**_ 's station."

Keri hung her head and turned to go, but not before sliding a shy glance Kíli's way. The King noticed and he forced a slight smile to his face and accompanied it by a playful wink. Keri brightened up considerably and scurried out of the Hall to obediently do as she was told.

Last, but not least, was Kal. Bard sighed heavily and shook his head slowly at the last remaining dwarfling.

"Young Master Kal...you should not tell your sister what she can and cannot do -"

"That's _my_ job," Kivi interjected firmly, with a thunderous glare down on her nephew's wheat-colored hair.

"So, I will leave your judgment in the hands of your aunt," Bard concluded smoothly, as if he had expected Kivi's interruption.

The Bowman crossed his arms back over his chest and calmly glanced over at Kivi.

"What you said to Keri was deeply disrespectful," Kivi scolded her nephew sharply. "I have raised you better than that. You will help Keri with Alfrid when Katrikki cannot be present," the master mason held her hand up sharply to cut off her nephew's abrupt attempt at protestation. "And you will spend any other time helping Bain train. If Katrikki allows Keri to go practice with a bow while Alfrid is otherwise occupied, then _you_ will help your sister."

Kal opened his mouth again and was promptly shut down by Jarvi's heavy hand on his thin shoulder.

"Do not argue," Jarvi shook his ruddy head in warning. "This is a fair judgment, Kal. Accept it gracefully."

The dwarfling sighed deeply, but then stomped out of the Hall to go follow his sister toward the chirurgeon's station. That left just the adults remaining, to make of each other what they would.

* * *

 **Reference**

 _ **Chirurgeon**_ \- a ye olde French word for surgeon/doctor; seemed an appropriate term for the feel of Tolkien's world.


	5. Off On the Wrong Foot

" _Some folk we never forget  
Some kind we never forgive."_

" **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Thatrnurt (Tht) 'Afkalm 25th**

 _(Saturday April 24th)_

 _ **Dale**_

* * *

The silence wasn't long, but it was profoundly uncomfortable. Something lingered in the air - an unspoken curiosity, an unspoken animosity. Then there was Bard, the neutral balance, who settled back on his stool and waited patiently for someone to break the silence.

Kivi tried not to look in the king's direction, but it was hard not to; he was not at all what she had expected. He did indeed have the look of the Northern Khazâd, with a taller-than-was-average-for-a-dwarf height, a more agile build, something of a definable waist above his wider hips, and a half-grown beard. He had kind eyes, too, though darkened by what looked to be a weariness that bruised the skin beneath his lashes. He was young, too, his face a bit weathered from exposure to the elements, but still quite unmarred by age.

When she had moved into the shadow of Erebor, lured by the promise of work, Kivi had heard about the Battle of the Five Armies that had ravaged the plains between Dale and the Mountain. She had heard about Thorin Oakenshield – then again, she had long known of the "crownless king". She hadn't come to Dale simply for a means to support her late brother's twin dwarflings; she had come with the thought that perhaps she would approach Durin's Heir, as her brother had, in search of a boon on behalf of her beleaguered kin in the North.

What she had found out, shortly upon her arrival, was that Thorin Oakenshield, who had once spoken to her own brother, had died by the blade of his greatest enemy, a pale Orc who's name escaped her. He had left behind a single heir, this Kíli Thorinkin, who knew nothing of her or she of him. She had heard of his presence in Dale during the festivals that had fallen since her arrival, but had steered clear of the Lonely Mountain's king and his entourage, always busy with her work.

She had expected an older dwarf - one with the characteristic excess of facial hair for which the Longbeards were well renowned. She wasn't precisely expecting an _elder_ , with snow-white locks and wrinkled skin, but she also wasn't expecting a tired-eyed youth who could not possibly be any older than she was herself. This was not at all the ill-tempered, gold-obsessed, xenophobic, dour-souled Longbeard that was practically a stereotype among her own people.

No, the King Under the Mountain was surprisingly easy on the eyes and if his eyes told the truth about what lay within him, he was a thoughtful, observant soul. His expression, while carefully guarded, was far more open than Kivi would have assumed, which probably had something to do with the fact that most of his face was not hidden by a full-grown beard. Her eyes lingered on the thick, well-groomed hair that framed his face and fell over his shoulders; it was the rich burnt umber of a _**Losrandir**_ 's summer coat. The comparison made her heart ache and as the two eyed each other silently for several long moments, she felt something within her threaten to break. The losses she had endured threatened suddenly to overcome her and she felt her cheeks flush in what the dwarven king would certainly mistake for a maidenly blush. At that thought, she huffed under her breath and turned sharply on her heel, as if to leave.

"Oi!" Bofur suddenly made an accounting of himself; Kivi tried to hide her surprise, as she had not noticed him sitting so quietly in the corner of the room.

For a moment, engineer and mason seemed both frozen in their respective spots. But then, Bofur swung his legs off of the bags of grain that he'd been using as a lounge and stood up.

"If you're of the North," he waved a half-gloved hand in Kivi's startled direction. "What House do you call kin?"

Kivi blinked, then frowned; she suddenly felt trapped. There was, however, no way for her to gracefully avoid the direction the conversation was suddenly taking. She couldn't very well _lie_ to this new dwarf, or ignore his question in the presence of his king. She took a deep breath, slid a glance over at Jarvi, who's nod was almost imperceptible.

"Thulin," she answered abruptly. "I am a Stiffbeard."

"A mason?" Bofur pressed.

Kivi knew where this was going and there was no way to avoid it. She resisted the urge to bolt for the door.

"Yes," her answer was terse.

There was a brief, intesely uncomfortable silence as Bofur considered this revelation. Finally, his eyes narrowed and the ends of his strange hat quivered in the beginning stages of indignation.

"The King," his eyes flickered over toward Kíli and then back to her. "Sent out criers to all the dwarven cities of the West not twelve months ago, to gather as many masons as could be had from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills. Surely, if you've been here long enough to rebuild as much of Dale as ya' 'ave, you've heard of this."

Kivi resisted the urge to fidget beneath the four sets of eyes that now watched every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She could not lie, without at least Bard or Jarvi knowing and though she doubted that they would call her out, she didn't want to act so dishonorably in their presence.

"Yes," she finally crossed her arms over her chest, in a frustrated gesture of defiance and uncertainty. "I knew of Erebor's need."

"For how long?" Kíli now spoke, his voice low; Kivi glowered at him in an attempt to hide the realization that he suspected something _more_ to her reluctant answers.

There was nothing she could do, so she told the truth as succinctly as she knew how.

"I worked on the sea walls of Dol Amroth before I traveled here. I heard of the King's criers before I ever left."

"So...you would ignore the request of your _kin_...but you'll help a _Man_ rebuild his city?" Bofur's face was slowly turning red beneath his distinctly styled mustache and trimmed goatee.

"Well, thank you, Bofur," Bard answered before Kivi could, his tone dry. "I only killed Smaug. No big thing."

"Ach, I mean no disrespect, Master Bard," the dwarf had the decency to grimace at his guffaw and glance apologetically over at the future King of Dale.

He took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. Kivi could think of nothing in her defense and Jarvi was remaining unhelpfully silent behind her. Bard looked bemused at the situation and she didn't _dare_ look at King Kíli - she could practically _feel_ his dark eyes boring into her as he studied her profile.

"So, allow me to reiterate," Bofur's accent thickened considerably as his indignation grew. "Ya' knew of 'Erebor's needs' before you ever came here. Then ya' travel from one city of Men, to another. Ya' begin working for Master Bard – no disrespect, good sir," he paused and offered Bard an ameliorating glance, before rounding on Kivi again. "Knowin' full well that _we_ could use ya're skills. Ya're a _Stiffbeard_ for Mahal's sake, a master of master masons, if the stories of ya're House are true. Ya look to Erebor every day...an' _this_ is how ya' answer the cries of ya're kin?"

To discredit or belittle Bofur's rather justified frustration would have been dishonorable. It was Kivi's turn to take a deep breath, as she decided to fight blunt honest truth with blunt honest truth.

"You Longbeards may be my kin, but I know _nothing_ of you, nor you of me," Kivi spread her own feet wide and propped her fists definitely on her hips, as she squared off against Bofur. When I left Dol Amroth, I chose to travel to these Lonely lands on my _own_ terms, for my _own_ reasons," she paused for a breath, but Jarvi interjected; what he said shocked her into silence.

"There is trouble in the North, in our home of Kivi Torni," her cousin's voice seemed to rumble through the wooden floors beneath their boots, his voice was so deep. "We left that home because of it, because of dwarven lords who thinly disguise their orders as requests, and who would force more obligation upon us than we are willing to bear."

Now Kivi could feel Bard's eyes studying the back of her head. She hadn't said anything about why she showed up at Dale's broken gates, with an odd assembly of companions and two young dwarflings. The Man, in fact, had shown a polite lack of curiosity about her origins, but she knew that he had questions. Bard was a smart man – smarter than most, Kivi reckoned – and it did not take a genius to see that her clothes, her speech, her appearance was noticeably different from those of the Broadbeams, Longbeards, and Firebeards who had begun to settle beneath the Mountain and to trade in the streets of Dale. Jarvi had now, most likely, stoked the flames of the Man's suspicions.

"When I came to Dale at the new year, I chose to observe you sons of Durin, to learn about your ways and your king, without immediately binding the honor of my word to your terms and conditions. However, as you can see, I have two young mouths to feed, two young bodies to cloth, and roof to keep above them. I had to work. Men, I have found, are surprisingly straightforward with their contracts, at least in terms of labor, so I accepted Master Bard's request to rebuild Dale while I considered yours," Kivi stared hard at Bofur, as if daring him to object to her methods and means, before turning her challenging gaze toward Kíli. "My intentions have remained practical and honorable all along. Surely, Your Majesty, would not begrudge a stranger to your House the wisdom of looking before she leaped?"

"I _would_ begrudge your unwarranted suspicion of us," Kíli countered quickly; he pulled his shoulders back proudly.

"'Unwarranted'?" Kivi's voice rose sharply and she spun away from Bofur, to stalk angrily toward Kíli, her boots thudding ominously on the floorboards. "You know _nothing_ about me, Your _Majesty_ ," she all but spat the title out, as she stopped just an arm's length away from Kíli. "And I know nothing of _you_."

Kíli was quite proud of his self-control. Before the loss of his uncle and brother, and his acceptance of Erebor's crown, he would have gotten right back into Kivi's face and given her a piece of his mind. But, Balin _had_ managed to make some headway in getting it through Kíli's thick head that impulsiveness was _not_ a quality that ought to be possessed in spades by a king. He chewed the inside of his lip - a habit he had started, when trying to stop himself from snapping out his most immediate thoughts - and narrowed his eyes in warning at his unexpected adversary.

"You're right," he practically ground the words out through gritted teeth. "I do indeed know nothing about you. However, that also means that I - and my people - have never done _anything_ to you to deserve such distrust," some of Kíli's control slipped and he clenched his fists reflexively. "Your cousin says that you have traveled through the West to escape the demands of dishonorable lords. Is that so, or are you simply making excuses for a personal lack of honor?"

Kivi's face flushed a brilliant scarlet and her own control started to fade. Her eyes flashed and in other circumstances - in another time - Kíli would have taken a step back in surprise. She looked like she was about to slap him across the face.

" _ **Kivi äiti**_!" Jarvi's voice was all but thunder on the mountain; the volume and tone of her cousin's warning stopped Kivi from lashing out (verbally or physically) - both actions that she would have regretted later, if not instantly. " _He knows nothing of us, nor our past. Don't punish him for wounds he never created._ " [" _Stone Mother!"_ ]

She didn't move, didn't turn away from Kíli. The two practically shot arrows at each other with their eyes, and both of their shoulders were tensed for a fight, their fists clenched hard at their sides. But, Kivi bit her tongue; her jaw worked furiously as she forced the words she wanted to shout back down into the depths of her throat. Jarvi took the moment to drop some of the volume of his voice and added almost gently -

" _Perhaps you have wrongly judged their character, cousin. Admit that and move on."_

Kivi wanted to scream in frustration, but unfortunately, both Kíli and Jarvi had valid points. Even Bofur; nothing had been said so far by any of them that hadn't been said (albeit, much differently) by Jarvi, Etsijä, Katrikki, and Seppä in the last year.

She was as proud as any dwarf, but Kivi had also been broken - badly - at the cruel hands of the Ironfist lord, Synkkä, who had invaded her homeland, killed her people, and murdered her parents right in front of her before she had even had a chance to celebrate her transition into womanhood. It had been 22 years since she had escaped Synkkä's interest – his _lust_ – with the help of Jarvi and her older brother, Viljo. But, in all that time, Kivi hadn't been able to bring herself to trust any of the Khazâd that she had encountered in her travels through the West. In fact, she had made a concerted (and fairly successful) attempt to avoid much interaction with any of the dwarrow she had encountered up until now.

This unexpected meeting, however, had now forced her hand. She had felt her stomach sinking when she began to realize who Bard's long-haired, short-bearded – and admittedly handsome – guest really was. Initially, like Jarvi, she had joyously assumed that he was one of her House, a son of Thulin, come to find her, perhaps. To find out that he was none other than the King of Erebor had been a bit of a blow - distrust had immediately crept into Kivi's thoughts and disappointment colored her actions.

And, no small amount of embarrassment. She had hoped to rebuild Dale in peace - the reconstruction, if kept up at the same pace that she had set since new year, could be completed in another year. Then, she had thought, she would have been able to sufficiently observe the Erebor dwarrow as they went about their business through Dale - mostly merchants, although she had spotted the odd soldier or artisan wandering about through the days - and would be able to make her own informed decision about whether or not the King Under the Mountain was a man worthy of her craft.

It would seem now, however, that what Seppä had warned would happen...had happened.

 _"What you're doin' is shady at best and dishonorable at it's worst. You really think that you can rebuild a city of Men beneath Erebor's very shadow, and_ not _attract attention. The Longbeards are known for being stubborn - not stupid._

Seppä had gone on to swear (on more than one occasion) that Kivi's equivocation would surely be found out.

" _An' mark my words, no king is going to look favorably on that. You're all but showin' him your bare arse_ _."_

The black-haired smithy's words rang in her ears, as Kivi took a deep, steadying breath, and spat at Kíli through equally clenched teeth:

"I have excellent reasons for being suspicious of _any_ man's intentions, dwarrow or otherwise," her eyes flashed, despite her best effort to sound ameliorating. "Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further," the very idea terrified her, but Kivi swallowed roughly and continued doggedly on. "But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I chose to rebuild Dale over yon Erebor. You should well remember, from this day and forward, that I _not_ a daughter of Durin and I am not _yours_ to command."

She lifted her chin proudly, eyes daring Kíli to counter her challenge, and she could hear Jarvi all but groaning under his breath behind her.

" _We need an ally, Kivi...not another enemy_!"

For a moment - for just a moment, Kivi thought about biting her tongue and sacrificing some of her pride on behalf of her people, who were still unwillingly enslaved to the Ironfists. It was what her brother would have done, what he had _tried_ to do when defying her demands and traveling to Ered Luin to answer Thorin Oakenshield's call for the seven Houses. But, then Kíli opened his mouth...

"I am willing to provide you with whatever you so desire, if you would just _help_ your own kin," the young King finally lost control of his frustration.

"You are _not_ my kin!" Kivi shot back; she took two steps forward and jabbed her finger squarely into the King's chest.

Kíli's eyes went big and he looked down at her hand and then back up at her. His personal boundaries hadn't been breached since he was crowned. Well, except for his mother; Dis was not a dwarrow-dam who took 'no' for an answer when it came to forcing her motherly affection upon her sole remaining son.

There was the sound of a scuffle to the side of them; Kíli didn't dare break eye contact with Kivi, as her furious, icy eyes were unexpectedly riveting. Kivi didn't look over either; there was a muffled curse in Bofur's voice, so the two adversaries assumed that either Bard or Jarvi had restrained him. Most likely, Bard, since there wasn't any further protest, besides the scraping of boots across the floor.

" _He_ is my kin," Kivi jerked her other thumb behind her in her cousin's general direction. "My _kin_ are Men of the North - the Lossoth. My _kin_ are the Ice-Elves, the Avari. My _kin_ are the Umli, the descendants of Dwarf and Men. My _kin_ are those I have grown up with, those that I have called 'friend', those who have helped my House thrive in the frozen earth," the irate dwarf-maiden poked her finger into the center of Kíli's chest multiple times for emphasis. _"_ My _kin_ are those that the Stiffbeards have depended onto survive, to thrive, and to tame what we _all_ could of the harshest lands of Middle Earth."

The scuffling to the side grew more frantic and Bofur was starting to growl, apparently beyond reasonable articulation. There was a sharp exhale of breath and Kivi guessed that Bard had gotten an elbow to the stomach for all his trouble. Without looking away from Kivi, Kíli threw up his hand toward Bofur, his palm flat, fingers pointed up, in a silent, but unmistakable command to stay put.

"You value the kinship of Elves and Men over the Khazâd ?" Kíli demanded quietly; there was a hint of wonder in his voice, but Kivi did not know him to note it.

"I value the kinship of _all_ the races of the North who have depended on us, and we on them, to survive," Kivi hissed; she had moved unintentionally closer to Kíli until their noses were mere inches away from one another. "We have a saying in the North, among all our races - ' _You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself_ '."

Kíli paused for effect, before looking Kivi straight in the eye and very quietly answering back:

"Then you are a hypocrite, Kivi Journeyman. Because your kin - and yes, we _are_ kin - of Durin's House have fallen through the ice."

A feather could have been heard falling to the floor in the moments after Kíli's soft retort; Master and King stared hard at each other, their individual thoughts a mystery to each other. Then, without warning, Kivi swiveled abruptly her heel and stalked out of Bard's Hall without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

* * *

Kíli fell back into his chair after Kivi and her cousin had left. He leaned his head back, covered his eyes with his bare forearm, and groaned.

"That went well," he mumbled.

"I-what-why," Bofur was practically beside himself and sputtered incoherently for several minutes. "Why did you let her _talk_ to you like that? She _touched_ you!"

"It's not like I'm here in an official capacity, Bofur," Kíli let his forearm fall back to his side and he glanced wearily over at his old friend with a shrug. "She treated me like an equal - quite frankly, that was a refreshing change of pace."

"She blatantly disrespected you!" Bofur insisted hotly.

"She was well within her right to do so," Kíli disagreed. "Let's be frank, Bofur - she owes the crown of Erebor no loyalty whatsoever. If she decided she wanted to come to Dale to judge our worth before making her decision, and to rebuild Bard's future kingdom in the interim, then that's entirely in her right."

"But -!"

Kíli held up his hand again and shook his head, his jaw set in a stubborn fashion that Bofur knew only too well.

"What do you think, Bard?" the young dwarf turned his head and considered the Man who had remained mostly silent during the exchange between the three dwarrow.

"I think that the two of you made right asses of yourselves," Bard was, if anything, brutally honest; it was part of why Kíli liked him so much. "You were far too aggressive and argumentative, Bofur," the Man squinted sternly at the dwarf in question, before he turned to Kíli. "And _you_ need to choose your words more wisely before you speak. Kivi is a proud woman and I am beginning to suspect that she has had a past even more harrowing than your own. I am also beginning to suspect that she carries rank and privilege among her own people. I would tread gently, Kíli."

"Well, it's not like I've had much experience in handling such...such..." he fumbled for the right word and waved his hand dismissively in frustration. "Such delicate negotiations."

Bard barked out loud in a terse, sarcastic laugh. He reached over and slapped the young king on the knee, the corners of his mouth twisted up in a wry smile.

"It has more to do with the fact that you clearly have _no_ experience in dealing with women."

"Yes, I do," Kíli bristled.

Bard just laughed again and shook his head.

"Striking a business negotiation with a woman is a far cry from trying to woo her into bed, Kíli," the Bowman's dark eyes twinkled.

"For some that could be the same thing," Bofur muttered and Bard reached forward to cuff the impertinent engineer about his ear.

"You know what I mean, Master Dwarf," the Bowman rolled his eyes as he settled back on his stool.

"Well...dissecting what we've done wrong is only helpful up to a point," Kíli ran the fingers of one hand through his long hair in frustration. "Any _productive_ suggestions about what to do moving forward?"

"I would ask why you're so determined to win Kivi's services, but I suppose I need only look at my own walls to know the answer to that," Bard sighed; he then leaned his whole body toward Kíli and propped his elbows on his knees.

"My friend," he reached out with one hand and patted Kíli's knee. "Give Master Kivi her space. She will not respond to arrogance, or gestures of dominance, or to even the faintest hint of control. She is _not_ a dwarf of Erebor, nor a daughter of Durin. In a way, she is quite correct - she is _not_ your kin. I dare say, she's an entirely different type of dwarf and not one that any of you fools have ever encountered before," Bard patted Kíli's knee one last time and offered the scowling King an encouraging, if crooked, grin. "My best advice to you, Kíli? _Ask_ , don't _tell –_ and don't, for the love of the Valar, send another dwarf to ask on your behalf. She met you as an equal. Give her the same courtesy, Your Majesty."

* * *

 **Reference**

 _ **Losrandir**_ – reindeer.


	6. A Home Left Behind

" _Haven't seen the back of us yet  
We'll fight as long as we live."_

" **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Ibriznurt (Ib) 'Afkalm 26th**

 _(Sunday April 25th)_

 _ **Dale**_

* * *

The mission to make Kivi see sense began with Bard.

"Morning, _**Mestari**_ ," the Bowman said, pleasantly enough, as he strolled casually up toward Kivi's work station. [" _Master_ "]

Her work crews hadn't yet reported for the day; the sun was barely above the horizon and full light wouldn't flood the nooks and crevasses of Dale for at least another hour. Kivi, however, was ever early to bed and early to rise; as the chief supervisor of the city's rebuilding, there was always plenty of work to be done before the crews shuffled up to their meeting point, yawning widely, still half-asleep.

She hovered over her makeshift table and scribbled notes to herself in a large, oil-stained, and weather-beaten leather journal. Every so often, she would tuck her quill behind her ear and squint hard at the almost haphazard array of blueprints spread out before her. When pausing to consider and think, she would raise a sturdy, steaming, green-glazed ceramic mug to her lips and sip at its contents absent-mindedly. There was a bowl perched just within her reach, filled with a peculiar, red-tinted porridge, the likes of which Bard hadn't ever seen. He eyed it thoughtfully and then over at Kivi's mug, out which was emanating a deep and smoky scent into the still-crisp morning air.

"Mornin'," Kivi answered gravely from around the rim of her mug; her blue eyes tracked Bard's movement and the Bowman knew that she already suspected the reason for his unexpected visit.

He decided to ignore the obvious for the moment.

"An interesting breakfast," he waved a hand casually at Kivi's wooden bowl and glazed mug.

"Not so, really," the mason glanced down at her red-tinted meal with a wry half-smile. "I suppose, then, that you've never had a porridge made out of _**cowberries**_."

"Cowberries?" Bard blinked in surprise and leaned over the table to peer at the contents of Kivi's wooden bowl. "You can eat them, then?"

"Let me guess," Kivi didn't even try to hide the laughter in her voice. "You Men only give them to cattle?"

"Well...yes," Bard's dark hair moved slightly against the side of his throat as he shook his head in surprise; equally dark eyes rose up to meet the dwarf-maid's amused face. "I was always told that they were poisonous - for Men, at least," his gaze dropped again to consider the innocuous bowl of porridge. "Because of the vibrant color and all."

Kivi gave up on being stoic. Her laughter rolled against the stones around them with a gentle peel, the timbre of it husky and rich, yet unmistakably feminine. She shook her head in ill-disguised mirth and the sun rising slowly above the tower behind them caught the scarlet strands woven naturally amid her golden hair.

"What is it with the folks of the West and their aversion to bright colors?" she chortled, eyes sparkling like chipped crystal. "We call them _puolukka_ in the North and in my southern travels, I thought they had disappeared into my childhood, a fond memory," her full lips curled upward in a cheerful smile as she picked up the bowl with one hand and offered it to Bard. "But, imagine my surprise when I traveled here to Dale and found whole bunches of them growing in the cracks and crevasses of the ruins that overlook this valley. They are a treasured fruit of my kin and grow so plentiful in the Northern Waste, that whole fields will be filled with scarlet berries for as far as the eye can see. Please, try."

If it was one thing Bard had learned in his nearly two years of dealing with dwarves, it was that one did not decline their generosity. He shared Kivi's smile, reached over across the table, and cupped his larger hands around the smooth sides of the bowl. It was still warm, the heat soaking through his bare palm and soothing the callouses on his fingers. He picked up the spoon that was propped up against the side of the dish and took a tentative bite.

"Hmm..." the Bowman mumbled around a mouthful as he rolled the porridge across his tongue and swallowed. "It's quite tart."

"It is," Kivi couldn't stop a friendly chuckle. "Most of my people put more sugar into the porridge than I do - Seppä, for example. But, I like it a little tart for a morning repast. Wakes up the senses."

Bard took another bite, as if to confirm his opinion of the matter. He squinted off into the distance as he chewed slowly and thoughtfully.

"I like it," he finally determined and handed the bowl back to Kivi with an easy grin. "You will have to share the recipe with Sigrid. It would indeed make a good breakfast."

"It's easy enough to make - Tilda could make it as well, I wager," Kivi all but beamed with the Man's approval. "Or you, or Bain," she shrugged with a wide smile. "It's nothing more than rough-ground grain, mashed cowberries, sugar, and a little cream."

"Simple enough, then," Bard agreed, with an appraising eye cast down on the brightly colored porridge.

"Simple, but hardy," Kivi picked up her mug and sipped at its contents with an air of particular satisfaction. "It's what we folk of the North do best."

"It would seem that your kin are people of great humility...and even greater skill," Bard lifted his eyes toward the scaffolds built up against the nearby walls and the half-way finished arch between them.

"I assure you, our humility is but practicality. The odds of survival are considerably higher when one watches her tongue," Kivi snorted into her drink, but her eyes still twinkled with good will. "As for our skill..." she set her mug down gently on the table in front of her and traced a finger carefully around its rim. "That, too, comes from sheer practicality. Like all dwarrow, we dig into the earth, but the wilds of our homeland are frozen for more months of the year than they are green, and the earth is much harder there than here. Wood is fragile and catches fire too easily in the dry, snowy air; in some places it is also quite scarce and put to better use _as_ firewood, for our hearths, for our life heat," she spoke softly, her eyes fixed to the walls as well.

She seemed to be in something of a trance as she recalled the ways of the Stiffbeards; Bard hung on every word. This was more than he had _ever_ heard Kivi speak about herself, her people, or her homeland. It would seem that Jarvi's revelation from the day before had loosened some of her reluctance to speak of her past.

"Like all dwarrow, my kin also burrow into the bones of this world. But, we do not mine so deeply as the others. Instead, we depend on stone for our survival - stone supports and shelters us. Without it, our ancestors would have died long ago, in Thulin's age. Stone is integral to our survival and so, we have learned to master our craft," Kivi glanced solemnly toward Bard, who met her gaze with equal intensity. "Our stone must support the weight of our kin, it must shelter us and all who come to us for survival during _**S**_ _ **hulukadrân**_ , or the Deep Winter. It must bear the weight of mountains covered almost always in layers of hardened ice and snow. It must protect us from the cold drakes and the storms. One mistake made by the mallet of a mason can kill hundreds of my kin as swiftly and as cruelly as the frost. Ours is a sacred duty, a matter of truest trust," she glanced down and briefly brushed her fingers against the iron mallet that was laying dutifully at the edge of the table by her left hand. "We never forget that."

"So, Dale is in the best of hands, then," Bard had never once questioned Kivi's skill, but it still buoyed his hopes to hear her speak of how integral her craft really was to her own identity.

"It would be in the best of hands, if _any_ Stiffbeard mason were here," Kivi shook her head, braid bouncing, as cautious as ever of praise that might single her out. "Dale is presently in good hands, because I am a Stiffbeard, but not by any virtue of my own skill."

It was this humility that intrigued Bard - not because he felt it was disingenuous, as he had observed equal displays of humble evasion to praise from Kivi's four adult companions, but because he suspected that, in Kivi's case, it was a product of her secrecy. Bard, as an archer and a long-time boatman of Laketown, had a keen instinct when it came to others - instincts sharpened by a life on the fickle water and a life with the fickle Master. He had known from the very day he met her, that Kivi Journeyman had much about her self hidden away. That intrigued Bard, but he was wise enough not to pry. She had never lied to him, or even so much as quibbled in the time she'd spent among the Men of Dale. This was enough to urge Bard to keep his tongue and curiosity in check - the dwarf-maid would tell him in her own time and probably in abrupt, unexpected revelations, like this one.

He couldn't help poking, though, ever so lightly.

"Seppä would seem to disagree," Bard softened his words with a roguish smile and a sidelong glance at his short friend.

Kivi had the reaction he expected - she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes skyward.

"Seppä has high expectations - if you haven't noticed, he's a most unrealistic Dwarf."

Bard just laughed and countered with an easy:

"He said your mother was a Stone-Singer and could shape the most elegant structures, that could withstand the weight of ages."

"My mother _was_ special," a great sadness darkened the clarity of Kivi's eyes and Bard felt a sudden regret for bringing up what was apparently a topic of grief. "And she was indeed a Stone-Singer - like her father before her and her grandmother before him," the gold-and-copper strands of her hair framed the curves of her face and only seemed to accentuate how very young she was.

 _Too young to lose a mother,_ Bard realized with a pang of empathy; he had and still did think the same of his own two daughters.

"But," Kivi carried on, her voice much softer now, with memory and pain. "She died young and I was young, as well - too young, in fact, to have learned much of the great knowledge she had to pass down. I have learned what I have mostly from my early youth and from her journal," her hand drifted to the sturdy, well-worn journal on the table between her and the Bowman. "And from an Ice Elf," the dwarf-maiden's lips curled up wryly at the corners. "Which is the height of irony, really," she finally lifted her eyes and offered a chagrined little smile to Bard. "Since it was _my_ ancestors who taught _Katrikki_ 's forefathers how to shape the stones to their will."

Bard's eyebrows threatened to fly off of his forehead in surprise.

"But, isn't Katrikki a healer…?"

"She is," Kivi chuckled softly and shook her head; her braid bounced brightly against the front her bright blue tunic. "But, Katrikki is also the daughter of a master mason, as even Elves have the need to shape the stones. And Jarvi is a mason, too - he has had a great role in teaching me the secrets of our people."

"Isn't he a...ah…" Bard paused, wondering what was the most delicate way to state the obvious.

"A half-dwarf?" Kivi's brilliant blue eyes glanced slyly up and over toward her taller friend. "That would be the colloquial way of describing an Umli heritage. Although," she pursed her lips thoughtfully and tilted her head to the side. "Intermarriage between the Stiffbeards and other races of the North is neither forbidden or unusual, so long as certain expectations are followed," she shrugged and a winsome smile finally brightened her face. "After all, Jarvi _is_ my cousin."

"Your..." Bard thought quickly. "Father's nephew, then?"

"Yes. Jarvi is the youngest son of my father's youngest sister," Kivi's face darkened again, but not quite so severely as before. "When he reached his age of Choice, he asked to be apprenticed to my father. Jarvi, if you haven't noticed, is cheerful and…" Kivi wrinkled her nose comically, her eyes twinkling teasingly. "Well, quite _loud_. Far too loud for the dour Umli. He fit in much better with us Stiffbeards and he had many years to learn my father's craft. I have, in many respects, learned far more of my father's skills, than my mother's."

"Surely your father was a great mason in his own right," Bard didn't mean for his words to sound quite so obsequious and he winced a bit to himself.

Kivi just threw her head back and laughed.

"No, not really," she grabbed her braid and threw it over her shoulder, so it could swing freely across her back; she winked playfully at the Bowman, to ease some of his embarrassment. " _Isä_ had many duties to fulfill that had nothing to do with masonry, so he could not devote himself to his craft as much my mother could. He was solid - a true and masterful mason, to be sure. But, he was no Stone-Singer nor Stone-Master, and he would tell you that himself, were he here to do so." [" _Father_ "]

Her smile, again, turned a little sad, so Bard tried to push the conversation past such sad remembrances.

"Your companions all seem to think that _you'll_ become a Stone-Singer yourself, one day," his dark eyes watched Kivi closely, in the hope that the sorrow on her face might fade again.

"Perhaps," Kivi shrugged, all practicality and humility again; she didn't quite meet Bard's gaze and fiddled absently with the corner of one parchment blueprint. "But, they have not yet begun to sing to me; my skill is not so great as that."

"Stones...sing?" Bard nearly gave himself whiplash as he turned to peer curiously at the silent walls above them.

"The earth is a living thing, you understand," Kivi's voice was reverent and firm, her words assured by a deep-seated knowledge that the Man before her could only marvel over. "The soil, the grass," she waved at the unremarkable dust and dirt at their feet. "They are but the skin. The rocks, the stones, the gems? They are the earth's bones and they whisper their secrets as surely as the wind above them."

Bard watched Kivi with a mixture of disbelief and awe. He had never heard such things - much less from a dwarf. In fact, he was fairly certain this was the longest conversation he had ever _had_ with one of the Khazâd - Kíli notwithstanding.

"They don't sing like sparrows or crickets, mind you. But, I remember my mother saying once that each stone, each metal, each bone of the earth had its own harmony when struck with chisel and mallet. She could carve so certainly and so swiftly, that she could make the stones sing as she worked. I watched her once, when she didn't know I was there, when I was a dwarfling younger than even Kari or Kal," Kivi stared straight ahead at Dale's resurrected southern wall; her gaze never wavered, nor her voice, but Bard could hear her loss all the same. "She sang to them - she sang _with_ them, with the rhythm of her tools, and with the steady beat of her iron against the granite. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

"I can, perhaps, Master Bowman, claim to be a _Mestari_ among the worlds of Men," slowly, Kivi turned her fiery heard toward Bard and looked solemnly up at him. "But I could not claim to be a _Mestari_ among my own people, within my own homeland. And I am certainly no Stone-Singer."

There was a long, painful silence between the two of them. Finally, Bard took a deep breath and sighed heavily into the brightening morning.

"But," he shoved his thumbs into the sturdy width of his belt. "Dale is in good hands."

"You have my word," Kivi spoke with all the sincerity of an oath-making.

Bard chewed the inside of his lip for a moment as he debated on whether to leave the conversation amiably at that...or to press his luck. A harsh squawk and abrupt flurry of wings distracted him and he jerked his head up toward the sky at the same time Kivi did. A pair of energetic ravens flapped and fluttered over the top of a newly rebuilt guard tower to the right of the reconstructed gate. The caws of the two birds echoed through Dale's lower streets, startling more than their fair share of sleepy workmen, yawning merchants, and bleary-eyed beggars.

"Ugh," Kivi made a noise of deepest disgust as she lowered her head and reached for her still-steaming mug.

"Have something against ravens?" Bard tried to make light of the situation and laughed easily as the ravens' din began to fade the further they flew.

"They're carrion birds," Kivi pinched her lips together, as if she had just taken a bite of unsweetened cowberry. "Foul and loud," her eyes flashed fiercely at Bard, as if daring the man to contradict her. "Omens of death and war. What king in his right mind would make such dark portents his _toteemi_?"

"His what?" Bard shook his head, confused.

"His…" Kivi waved an exasperated hand in the air between them as she searched for the right word. "His _emblem_. His... _symbol_ , I suppose."

"Ah," the Bowman glanced upward again, at the now raven-less sky.

As a curious aside, he added:

"Do the lords of the Stiffbeards have a...ah... _toteemi_?" he forced his mouth to work around the foreign word and was quite pleased to hear that it came out not half as horribly as he would have thought.

"Theirs is the Pale Owl, the _**kalpea pöllö**_ ," Bard did _not_ miss the wistfulness that crept into Kivi's voice. "They are noble creatures, the chiefs of the North's birds of prey. They have wingspans nearly as long as a dwarf is tall. They are graceful and silent - keepers of secrets and ancient wisdoms."

"Quite the opposite of ravens then, I imagine," Bard offered her an encouraging half-smile.

"Indeed," Kivi quirked her lips in something that her companion couldn't decide was a smirk or a grimace.

Silence, again.

Bard took another deep breath, as Kivi took another deep sip of her drink.

"I have never heard you speak so freely about your people, your homeland."

The Bowman had quite startled himself by this admission and he blinked owlishly at Kivi. For her part, the master mason's face softened into an expression that was almost self-conscious.

"You are an easy audience," she shrugged and cast her eyes down, as if suddenly shy. "And you have caught me on a morning where I am, perhaps, more nostalgic than I would be normally."

"You are an unusual dwarf," Bard observed gently; his gaze never strayed from Kivi's down-turned face. "Seppä, too. You two as secretive as any dwarf I've ever met, but you both have offered a hand of friendship to me, my family, and the people of Dale. You build our walls, he builds our smithies. I have never met dwarrow so willing to help those not of their own race."

"That is because the Stiffbeards have learned a lesson that the other Khazâd have yet to fully accept," Kivi looked up at that, her face proud and - Bard could think of no other word - regal. "We have learned to exist in a world that would kill us in our very sleep. We are dependent on each other – and _all_ honorable races of the North. We have learned to be interdependent, for there is no other way to live in the Wastes.

"The Lossoth - the Men - hunt the whales and other great beasts of the icy seas. They trade oil, food, skins with us. The Umli are master hunters and herders - it is they who taught my forefathers how to be invisible amid the snow, how to find food, to herd the horned _losrandir_ , how to train the loyal _**reikikoriat**_ to pull our sleds. The Ice-Elves have taught us how to heal our wounds, what dangers to avoid in herb and berry, how to read the sky, the stars, the weather. And in turn, we have taught them all how to carve stone, how to build, how to tend fires that never wane. Thulin, our _**Vanha Isä**_ , swore an oath that we have solemnly kept to this very age – from the first day of _**Iklaladrân**_ , to the last day of _Shulukadrân_ , for winter's five months, we welcome any wanderer into our halls. Be they Man, Elf, or Dwarf, they are welcome to partake of our hearth fires and the safety of our stones. This hospitality is the cornerstone of all that my people are," Kivi explained solemnly, her husky voice filling the balmy summer air with memories of ice, hoar, and frozen winter nights. "In the North, the word 'kin' extends far beyond the Khazâd. We are _all_ kin, for we cannot survive without each other."

Bard could not help but be awed by the fierce nobility of Kivi's words. She was as proud to be a daughter of Thulin, as any dwarf of Erebor was to be a son of Durin. There was a depth of honor, a veneration of memory that grounded her words in a way that no Man of Dale could claim of his or her own histories. Bard felt oddly to compelled to bow his head respectfully to her, as respectfully as if she were Kíli himself.

"You honor me deeply with these stories of your homeland," tawny eyes met cerulean, solemnly and admiringly. "It is an honor to have you and your kin with us, Kivi Journeyman, and I will always, gladly, call you 'friend'," Bard paused and a subtle tension now slipped in between them.

He took a steadying breath and watched as Kivi read his body language. Her own shoulders pulled back and a slight frown marred her high, smooth forehead. They had come to the juncture of their conversation and they both sensed it, as strangely connected in thought and knowledge as if they had known each other intimately for decades. Bard swallowed hard and hoped he would not displease her with the question that now quite begged to be asked.

"But," he watched as Kivi's eyes now narrowed ever so subtly. "If you are so honor-bound to help rebuild the walls of Men," Bard motioned wide around them, never once breaking eye contact with the stocky mason. "Then why are you so hesitant to rebuild the halls of Durin?"

Anger crackled darkly through Kivi's eyes, altering the clarity there like sharp divides in broken ice. She lifted her chin proudly, haughtily, her demeanor now as unwavering as the very stones she carved.

"Because I am not a daughter of Durin, for Kíli Thorinkin to order about as he likes."

"He's not _ordering_ you though," Bard fought the urge to reach up and rub his temples in exasperation; for all of Kivi's openness around him, she was as stereo typically obstinate as any dwarf he'd met. "He's _asking_."

"If the King Under the Mountain wishes to _request_ my assistance, then he can stop speaking through the mouths of others and ask me himself," Kivi's voice was now as sharp as her ever-present chisel. "I _might_ consider such a thing, should he climb off that accursed throne of his, and set aside his arrogance. But," she pursed her lips sourly. "I rather suspect the deserts of the _**Haradwaith**_ will freeze first."

"He _is_ a king, you know. The _high_ king, really, of the Khazâd, to my best understanding," Bard frowned and shifted his feet in frustration. "As such, it _is_ in his right to order and offer."

"There is a divide among the children of Mahal," Kivi stubbornly shook her head, unmoved by Bard's limited understanding of the Khazâd. "And Kíli Thorinkin should well know that. Durin's Sons may rule the West, but the heirs of Thulin rule the East. And so it has ever been. I am _not_ his to command."

Bard squirreled this revelation away in the back of his mind to bring to Kíli's attention later. While what Kivi claimed shocked the Bowman, he briefly mused that with as little understanding as he had of the dwarrow (and none at all about their Eastern kin), then it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility for Kivi's word to reinforce the dwarf-maiden's refusal to acquiesce.

And yet, Bard couldn't help feeling there was more…

"You speak of him as an equal. You treated him that way, as well," he eyed her thoughtfully, carefully.

To his surprise, Kivi showed no reaction to his subtle prod into the deeper depths of her identity. Her face was as impassive as the mountain beyond them and she smoothly dodged his inquiry with a sharp retort that revealed absolutely nothing.

"I did indeed approach Kíli Thorinkin as an equal," if anything, her expression was mulish, her eyes unrepentant. "And if he ever wishes to have my cooperation, then he will extend the same courtesy to me."

And that was that. Kivi Journeyman would not speak any more of it and Bard left soon thereafter in a mixture of mild irritation, piqued curiosity, and deepened respect toward the enigmatic dwarven-maid who so was so masterfully piecing together his ancestral home.

* * *

 **Reference**

 _ **Cowberries**_ \- a colloquial name for ligonberries. Since I live in the States (and the South, at that), I have never eaten or seen a ligonberry in the whole of my three decades. However...from what I can gather from research, it's rather like a cranberry in taste and appearance. Ish?

 _ **S**_ _ **hulukadrân –**_ technically means "wet-season"; spans from between January/February and March/April. Is considered the "Deep Winter" in the Northern homes of the Stiffbeards.

 _ **Reikikoriat**_ \- sled dogs; think huskies.

 _ **Iklaladrân -**_ winter, basically. Is considered the season between October/November and January/February.

 _ **Vanha Isä**_ \- means "Old Father". According to the MERPs website, this is the name that the Men have given Thulin. Which confirms what I had already suspected...the cultures of the Far North are indeed Finnish. Vanha Isä is definitely Finnish and translated immediately when I plugged it into a Finnish-English translator.

 ** _Haradwaith_** \- the far southern nation/region of Middle Earth.


	7. The Last Goodbye

" _All eyes on the hidden door  
To the Lonely Mountain borne."_

" **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Ibriznurt (Ib), 'Afkalm 26th**

 _(Sunday, April 25th)_

 _ **Erebor**_

* * *

Kíli let out a long, deep sigh as he lowered himself down into one of the many hot springs beneath the mountain. This particular onewas exclusively reserved for the King Under the Mountain and his family members. At this particular point, that privilege only applied to Kíli, but he had extended an invitation to Lord Dáin to use the baths when he so wished, as Kíli had also given him a room in one of the three wings that circled around the more centrally-placed baths.

All of the Royal rooms were built along the outermost curve of the mountain, facing the city of Dale, the plains between them, and the glistening ribbon of River Running. Almost all of the rooms had a balcony, although none so grand as the King's; from within his chambers, Kíli could throw the heavy stone doors of his balcony wide open and entertain as many as a party of six.

On the inside of the mountain, the halls of the Royal Level were open on the left side, to display a breath-taking view of the levels, walkways, balconies, and stairways of the kingdom above and below them. The floors of those hallways were made of pale blue sky-stone, threaded with intricate laces of silver and edged with delicate golden filigree. The walkways were carefully framed with study banisters made of polished black marble and brass; they were just about the height of an average dwarf's chest and as such, were the perfect height for leaning against and looking over without fear of overbalancing and plummeting to one's doom.

The level beneath the Royal apartments, however, was more enclosed and carefully guarded. In fact, the only main entrance to the apartments branched off of the walled hallway that lead to the very baths in which Kíli now rested. The baths themselves were artificial - the pools and their depths specifically engineered by dwarrow masons to mimic the more natural caverns deeper inside the mountain. Strong pipes and reinforced plumbing made it possible to pump both hot water and cold water from the mountain's various springs into a wide number of both cold and hot baths, so that no one dwarf (King or commoner) had to stray far from their homes or quarters to wash themselves.

Kíli currently sat in one of his own hot baths, on a shallow seat of sorts that had been carved into the side of the pool. He had come from an invigorating wash in the cold baths and he now relaxed in gently steaming heat that had been scented with herbs to soothe the ever-present ache in both his chest and thigh. He had his arms slung along either side of the carved seat and had sunk down into the water far enough to lay his head against a conveniently padded leather pillow.

Kíli breathed deeply, drawing the hot spring's steam into his lungs like he would a fine pipe smoke. He held it for a moment and then let his breath out slowly. This was the only time that he'd had alone to himself since sunrise - and last he checked, the moon had long since climbed into the star-lit night. It had been a draining day, full of sorrow and grief, as the last of the eastern interlock's recovered bodies were lovingly entombed in the Halls of Memory.

For once, however, Balin relayed a mostly positive response to Kíli's words and royal actions upon Erebor's cold stone throne that day. The young king felt at least _some_ tension leave his body when such news was delivered. His words had apparently soothed many of the broken hearts that had gathered sorrowfully in the Great Chamber of Thrór after the burial ceremonies; among that number were a significant number of Dáin's kin. This was quite the accomplishment, Balin had assured him, since support was greatly needed from the Iron Hills dwarrow, in order to ensure both peace and stability among the three Houses of the West.

Kíli opened his eyes, which he had closed during his brief muse over the day, and gazed wryly into the warm, damp darkness above him. The general business of a king seemed to escape him continuously, or confuse him, or utterly overwhelm him. But, grief? Grief he knew. He had spoken nothing but what was true that day, what came from his heart. He mourned the continued losses of his people - it was not so difficult to communicate that to others. It came far easier to him than words of mirth or council.

A sudden kerfuffle outside of the nearby door to the baths prevented Kíli's thoughts from taking a turn for the worse. He agitated the water around him as he abruptly sat up; his long, dark hair stuck in wet tendrils against his cheeks and mouth as he whipped his head around to eye the dimly lit walkway behind him.

"But, but...Your Highness!" Dwalin's deep voice echoed against the stones outside in clear and obvious distress.

The door flew open and a stout figure in what was quite definitely skirts paused proudly in the light that now beamed harshly into the dark baths.

"He isna' decent!" a taller silhouette appeared to the side and Kíli could see a thick arm reach out to pull the skirted figure back.

"Bah!" a wondrously familiar voice that Kíli knew as certainly as the sound of his own heart's beating chimed dismissively through the clouds of steam that now billowed in protest. "I brought the King of Erebor into this world with naught to cover him from my sight! I have nursed him, and dressed him, and chased his bare little _**khakhaf**_ over half of Ered Luin, just to corral him into a bath! What dwarrow-dam would I be if I were embarrassed by my own son's body?" [" _Buttocks_ "]

The figure - the only one that now brought Kíli any joy whatsoever - marched resolutely into the bath, as Dwalin grumbled darkly behind her.

"No more, Dwalin!" she was now close enough that Kíli could hear her skirts swish as she stopped and waved her hand toward the door. "Leave me to speak to my son in the way that I so choose."

"Well, it wouldna' hurt if ya' chose to speak to him _decently_. At least, for the love of Mahal, he shouldna' talk to a lady in anything less than his trousers!" Dwalin was apparently determined to have the last word; before any retort could be tossed back to him, he had shut the bath-house door behind him, perhaps a wee bit harder than was absolutely necessary.

"As if I could see anything in all this bloody steam," skirts rustled again as, evidently, Kíli's guest found the small stool behind him, upon which his towel had been precariously placed. "And as if I'd see anything I haven't had to bathe before, in any event."

Kíli laughed, his first true expression of joy in nearly a year - since the last time he had seen his mother - Dís, sister of Thorin Oakenshield and Princess of Erebor.

"I was quite a bit smaller in those days, _**Khagun**_ ," he squinted through the steam, but could only see his mother as a solid mass and not much more. [" _Mother_ "]

Dís laughed brightly at that; something rustled again and Kíli could picture her smoothing the imaginary wrinkles in the lap of her deep blue dress.

Kíli's quick way with words had always brought a smile to her face. He had always had a personality not unlike her's - witty, puckish, and just a tad bit bawdy. His similarity to her, in truth, was one of the reasons she had always worried over him so, lecturing him on his brashness and cavalier dismissal of danger. Thorin had once told him, in a moment of typical frustration, that Dís had been much the same way in her youth - always dashing off in search of adventure, while her brothers scrambled desperately after her, resigned to being dragged along, to carrying her back home, and being blamed thoroughly for any mishap that befell her.

And, usually, also blamed for her going off on adventures in the first place.

" _Frerin was always reading those damned history books to her - the ones with all the great deeds and feats of our forefathers and Durin reborn. Filled your mother's head with a taste for what she couldn't have."_

"You didn't send word that you were coming," Kíli tucked his good leg underneath him and turned, so that he was now resting his elbows on the stone floor, facing the misty form of his mother, his chest and stomach pressed up against the curve of the pool.

He folded his forearms side-by-side and rested his chin in the gentle groove between them. The steam was beginning to settle down, as the air within the chamber regulated itself once again. The features of Dís' proud face, thick hair, and elaborate braids was beginning to come into focus and for a moment, Kíli felt for all the world like a dwarfling again, being distracted in his bath-time play by his mother's mellow, dulcet voice.

"Yes, well...I've become quite well known in Ered Luin for my seclusion," Dís reached up and tucked one of her smaller braids behind her ear - it was the one she wore for Thorin, as it was fastened by a clasp that he'd made for her so very long ago. "Had I come out of such a thing so suddenly, saying that I wished to visit you...well, it would have made quite a stir. Which is not so much a bad thing," she added after a reflective pause. "But," she turned her head and finally, son and mother could make eye contact through the thin veil of steam that separated them. "I wished to have time - of my own make and choosing - with my only son, to speak privately with one another."

"You could speak with me privately whenever you wished, _Khagun_ ," Kíli titled his head so that his right cheek almost touched the patch of hair on his arms that was thickening slowly as he grew older.

"Yes...but if I had come with a full retinue and sufficient notice, it would be days before I could truly capture such time like this with you, _**dashat**_ ," Dís smiled gently at her youngest - her only remaining – child. [" _Son_ "]

"Ahhh," Kíli murmured softly - his mother had a point; he frowned a bit, then. "What brought you out of Ered Luin in the first place? Not that I'm not overjoyed to see you," he lifted his head and smiled at Dís a bit ruefully in the hopes that she didn't misinterpret his question. "But, I know that the memories are too bitter here for you."

"I went to pray before the Forge of Mahal some time ago," Dís finally turned her gaze away from Kíli and considered her demurely folded hands, which glistened faintly in the ambient lamps high above them, from the number of golden rings that she wore as symbols of her status and wealth. "I thought that when I lost your father, that I had would never feel such a dark despair ever again. But, losing my last remaining _**nadad**_ and your only…" one strong, but slim-fingered hand reached up to brush at the high curve of her cheek. "Oh, Kíli. I was so very wrong. My heart has been truly buried - I went to beseech Mahal to beg Him to take me so that I might be with your father, your brother, your uncle once again." [" _Brother_ "]

Kíli's own heart thundered in his chest with a rhythm that was as painful as a hammer pounding against his ribs. He could not bear the thought of his mother being taken from him, too - not so soon, in any event. The pain flowing through his body, through his heart, was also one of visceral empathy - he knew only too well what drove his mother to Mahal's Forge in such desperation. He, too, had been far beyond all grief or sorrow, and had sought such boons from the Father as well.

He said nothing of this to his mother, however. He simply pressed his cheek to the top of his arms and silently thanked the dimness of their surroundings for masking the tears that threatened to spill down his own cheeks. At this particular moment, after such a deep confession from Dís, Kíli didn't quite trust himself to speak.

"As you can see, Mahal did _not_ answer my prayers," she tried to laugh, but all that came was a soft, whispery hiccup. "But," Kíli watched silently as the back of her hand now wiped quickly across both of her cheeks. "He sent your father, Ríkin, to me first, in a dream. Then Frerin. Then Fíli. And lastly, Thorin."

Kíli lifted his head, instantly alert, curious, and strangely hopeful. He had always heard that his mother possessed the ability to dream-see, but since Ríkin had died between Kíli's own conception and birth, the young king had only ever heard tales of Dís' elusive gift. Losing Ríkin had robbed her, it had seemed, of the ability to dream-see and once, when he had asked about it as a dwarfling just on the cusp of his adolescence, Dís had said as much herself.

Apparently, however, her dream-seeing had not entirely deserted her. Or, perhaps, her grief and desperation had been so much, that Mahal had decided it was best to let her walk the misty worlds one more time, so that she could find the hope she needed to carry on. In any event, Kíli was glad of Mahal's intervention and he leaned his chest further against the stone, eager to hear what the memories of his loved ones had revealed to Dís' broken heart.

Dís noticed her son's youthful hope and smiled gently at him, her eyes drifting lovingly over the dark, winsome face that was so very much like the uncle he'd never been able to know - Frerin, the brother she had adored from birth. She had often thought that there was Thorin in Kíli's eyes, her own self in his roguish smile, Ríkin in his slender form, and Frerin in his face. They all lived on in the youngest King Under the Mountain - rulers within their own right, standing loyally in Kíli's own two shoes, willing to give him the strength to reign as they each would have done.

 _If you could but see that, dashat,_ Dís thought sadly.

 _That_ was the true reason why she had come without warning from Ered Luin, _that_ was the message that her fallen family had been sent to give her. Dwarrow-dames did not usually council their kings, but Dís had been shown that winds of change had long been blowing over the mountain. It was her mother's duty to help her son heal, to guide him, to teach him, to show him how to reforge the broken pieces of his spirit. She had been told that it was time for her to step in, she had been reminded that not all was lost, and that one last flame of hope flickered within the darkened ruins of _**Azsâlul'abad**_. She could no longer think of herself; it was now time for Dís to come into her own as a Princess of Erebor.

Kíli could - and would, and had - resist the guidance of Balin, or Gloin, or Dwalin. But, he could not resist his mother. Not when they both knew the depth of their shared losses. Dís took a deep breath, sat up straighter on her stool and turned her gaze back toward Kíli, her king, her son.

"Kibil," Dís spoke her only-son's True Name ever so gently into the thick air, an honor and privilege restricted to her and to the One that Kíli might yet wed. "Your year and a day of grieving is long past. Mahal has kept you here for a purpose that you must honor," as she spoke, Dís rose softly from her seat and knelt carefully on the stone floor so that she could cup her son's stubbled cheeks in both her hands and lift his face to meet hers. "It is time to accept your crown, _**Thanu men.**_ " [ _"My King"_ ]

"Have _you_ not mourned past the given time, _Khagan_?" Kíli's voice matched his mother's in softened timber, but his words were defensive - he had grown more than weary with the expectations of others to lay aside his grief as if it were a passing fancy.

Dís seemed to sense some of the king's thoughts. She shook her head and a few strands of steam-loosened hair brushed against Kíli's upturned face. He breathed in deeply the scent of rosemary and almonds, which he had associated with his mother for as long as he could remember. It calmed him and diffused some of his irritation.

"Kíli, _thanu men_ , you are indeed correct - I have mourned long past my time. It is, perhaps, the one custom of our people that I have tried to fight the hardest. I remember as if it were yesterday, the day when I received your father, cold and bloody on his shield," tears threatened to fall again, but Dís never broke eye contact with her son, never moved her fingers from beneath his chin. "Fíli was barely beyond a babe in arms and you were still growing within me. I was young and full of despair - the midwives had to fight with me to take care of myself, to take care of you."

Kíli's eyes grew a bit wide in the dimness - this was a part of his origin that he had never known. Always, his mother had seemed cheerful, if ever-anxious over the safety of her sons; she had always been firm of hand, but he could not remember a time when she did not comfort him when he needed it. The only time that illusion of a strong dwarrow-dam had been shattered, was when she'd knelt at the side of Fíli's tomb and sobbed softly into her hands for hours. The memory softened his stubborn heart further and he would have lowered his head to the floor in shame, but her smooth hands prevented him from dropping his gaze.

"It was Thorin who pulled me - protesting quite mightily, I confess - out of my sorrow. I'll never forget," a watery smile lifted Dís' lips ever so slightly. "Oh! The fuss he made! I was in labor with you, screaming and crying for Ríkin, and he quite thoroughly scandalized the midwives when he came bursting through the door without warning."

Kíli finally broke free of his mother's hands, as he pulled back and stared at her, agape. Dwarrow men _never_ entered the birthing room - unless, of course, he was the father. The presence of the father was expected at the birth, as it was he who had the honor of cutting the babe free and swaddling it in the cloths that had been prepared. It was the father who put the baby in the mother's arms; mother and father were both then expected to stay with their new charge, with each other, for however long it took the mother to recover, usually a few days. Such was custom, but only _ever_ the father.

"Oh, he made a mighty roar, in order to make himself heard over my wailing. ' _Stop your screeching, woman_!' he said," Dís leaned back herself and laughed softly at the memory and at the shocked look on her son's face. "Scared me right into silence, I have to admit, although that certainly didn't stop the pain of your imminent arrival. Then he plopped himself - armor, weapons, woolen coat and all on a stool next to me and grabbed my hand," the Princess dipped her head and dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. "' _Ríkin is gone to Mahal and nothing will change that_ ,' Thorin said, then. He was so harsh and his demeanor quite frightened me. But, your uncle had a heart of oak, too, _dashat_ \- strong, and loyal, and proud. He sat in your father's place, because he knew that's what I needed - tradition be damned - and held my hand. He gave me _his_ strength for that long night," Dís reached out and put her own slender hand on the top of Kíli's closest forearm. "He quite amazed the midwives, really, once they stopped their squawking. They said later, when Thorin was being most thoroughly scolded for his indiscretion, that they did not think you or I would have survived that birth without him. Yours was a hard birth, Kibil, and my spirit, my body, was weaker than it should have been.

"I no longer had your father when I needed him the most, but Mahal left me one strong enough to take his place where and when he could. It was Thorin who cut your cord, who swaddled you, who put you in my arms," no amount of steam could hide the shimmer of tears in her eyes, or the gentle illumination her sudden smile gave to her face. "I think that is, perhaps, a large reason why he always seemed to favor you. He took a father's bond with you, whereas Fíli's was with Ríkin."

Kíli was silent, unable to think of any response to his mother's revelation. In all his years with his uncle, Thorin had never said a word about his nephew's birth. His mind, unbidden, flashed back to the time just before the Battle of the Five Armies, when Thorin cupped his hand around the back of Kíli's head and pulled him forward to rest their foreheads together. They had smiled at each other, then, and Kíli had seen the depth of Thorin's love for him. It was the sort of gesture a father made with his son, one that was a rare but widely accepted admission of love, since dwarrow fathers rarely spoke their feelings out loud. It was the sort of affection a father showed to his son, before they both went out to battle and faced the very real possibility that they might never see each other again.

His whole life, Kíli had known no father, but his uncle. And he had never thought about it, had never analyzed it, but in the light of his mother's memory, the closeness he had always shared with Thorin suddenly made sense. It was Thorin, who had given him his first bow, who had patiently taught him how to shoot. It was Thorin who had sat back and indulgently allowed him to run amok, while Fíli had to keep his nose buried in the driest dwarrow tomes. Kíli had never hesitated, as dwarfling, to run to his uncle, to sit on his lap and to listen to his stories. Oh, Fíli had never hesitated, either - but Fíli had always sat at Thorin's feet, his back propped up against his uncle's legs, or maybe on the leg of the chair. Fíli was, for the most part, instructed by Balin, but in Kíli's early stages, it was Thorin who taught him how to read, to write, and to add his numbers.

Thorin's attentiveness had waned as Kíli grew up - upon reflection, that was the way of all dwarrow fathers, to give their sons the opportunity to grow on their own and make risks, while still under the watchful eyes of a parent who could fish them out of whatever chaos they created. But, when it was time for Thorin to teach Fíli and Kíli both the art of anvil and hammer, Thorin did not protest when Kíli failed to show a proper inclination for the craft. He was hard – _always_ hard – on Fíli, but it was Kíli he allowed to apprentice to a jeweler. Not a negative word was ever said about the choice to pursue a more delicate craftsmanship, one that suited Kíli's nimble fingers far better than the forge.

Unlike Fíli, Kíli had almost always been given his choice of paths to take through life; Thorin had, if anything, encouraged it, quite possibly because, as youngest-son, Kíli's fate was one far less predestined as his brother's. And freedom, he had been told sternly by Thorin from his youngest years, always came with choices that he had to learn to make " _with a steady head on your shoulders_ ".

Kíli could feel the corners of his eyes growing hot again with tears - tears that he was truthfully tired of shedding. But, to know that Thorin had brought him into the world and formed a father-bond with him because of it... And to know that now and to know that he had lived all those years under Thorin's watchful eye without once knowing the depth of his uncle's love for him…it was enough to tear a new wound clear through his heart.

Dís watched as all of Kíli's thoughts flashed across his face and echoed soundlessly in his dark eyes. As her young king worked out his thoughts and emotions about what she had told him, she gently brushed his arm and waited for the storm within him to calm. Once she thought it was maybe safe to interject, she said as softly as she could:

"This is why you have been allowed the twelve months of greiving, without question. Thorin was to you what Ríkin never got to be to Fíli - a father, in so very many ways. Even in my grief, I have received letters from Balin, updates on your doings here. You might feel differently, _dashat_ , but no one has begrudged you your year and a day. But, that is seven months past, Kíli."

"I've lost my brother - who protected me whole life and never left my side, not once," the young, burdened King of Erebor squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head fiercely; his voice wavered and his words were thick with emotions he could only express in angry spurts. "I've lost the very man who, you say, was my father in all ways except for siring me," as he spoke, Kíli unconsciously clenched his fists against the stone beneath them. "And I've lost….I lost…" his voice broke, unable to name Tauriel, even to his mother.

But, Dís knew anyway. It was no secret to her that her reckless, hard-headed, open-hearted youngest had stood at the cusp of giving his heart fully over to an elf-maid. And, truthfully, she could not find it in her heart to fault him for trying to grasp at a love just beyond his reach. Such was the way of youth.

"You have lost much, _thanu men_ , no one - not I - will argue that. But you are _not_ the only one who has lost so deeply," Dís lifted her hand and gently moved a strand of hair that had stuck itself to Kíli's cheek. "Thorin showed me that so very long ago; he also showed me that Mahal will always leave you with what and who you truly need."

Dís stopped for a moment and watched with great compassion, her heart breaking anew, as Kíli's shoulders and upper chest heaved in an effort to hold back his sobs. Her hand now soothed the wrinkles in his forehead and brushed his damp hair away from his face - soft touches, comforting touches, healing touches she hoped.

"I did you wrong, Kíli, when I allowed my sorrow and despair to send me back to the comfort of Ered Luin. It was safe for me, a place where I could be left alone as I so chose, without constant reminder of what our brothers gave their lives to reclaim. I should not have left you here by yourself - we have much in common now, _dashat_."

"I _have_ missed you, mother. So very terribly," Kíli admitted in a voice that was barely above a whisper; Dís drifted her fingers through the long hair that framed his face and murmured soothingly. "I've felt all alone in this Lonely Mountain."

"And you have never been alone before," Dís sighed heavily, guilt rolling through her at the thought that she had left her only remaining child to face the challenges of grief and kingship all on his own. "Oh, what sort of mother have I been?" she asked, more to herself than to Kíli - but he answered anyway.

"A good one, _Khagun_ ," he finally lifted his head, his cheeks wet with what they both pretended was condensation, and reached up to grab his mother's hand. "Always."

"One that has been blind and foolish in her grief," she said wryly.

"So, we've both been fools," Kíli rolled his shoulders and tried to smile up at his mother. "Runs true in the blood as…" his voice faltered. "Fíli would have said."

Dís chuckled softly and let her son take her hand in both of his as he sat straighter, his chest still pressed to the stone. The two fell silent for a moment; they were both trying to get used to the names of their loved ones on their tongues again. As far as Kíli was concerned, saying his brother's name out loud physically _hurt_ \- he hadn't said Fíli's, Thorin's, _or_ Tauriel's names out loud since their death. Just the very thought of doing so had always made him feel as if speaking their names in the past tense would bring a wretched sense of finality to their loss.

He had been correct in that assumption - his heart sank and he had to swallow a shout of grief at the very sound of his brother's name in the air between them. His mouth felt sour, then dry, and he couldn't stop the tears that fell into his all but non-existent beard.

"Tell me, Kibil – you have not spoken their names aloud in all this time, have you?" Dís asked gently as her hands were all but crushed in the desperate grip Kíli had on them.

Unable to speak, he just shook his head and a soft moan passed through his lips, which he had pressed tightly together.

"I should have done this a year ago, little raven," she murmured ever so gently, using the nickname she had given him as a dwarfling, because of his riotous array of dark hair and keen, bright eyes.

Still holding his hands, she scooted as best she could closer to the edge of the carved seat where Kíli shook and shivered in his sorrow. She had barely managed to settle her skirts again - her feet now hanging over the edge of the pool and all but brushing the top of the water - when Kíli made a desperate sort of sound and threw his arms around her waist. They were both at a level that he could bury his face into her thigh, as he had done as a dwarfling. Dís did not need to ask, to know that Kíli had tried to play his uncle's role - stoic, stubborn, stern. In truth, it was a natural thing to do - to hold tightly onto the clearest role model in memory. But, Kíli had never been like Thorin, or as Fíli had learned to be - no, her youngest son had always worn his heart on his sleeve, had always chattered incessantly like a young raven of Erebor, had never quite learned how to keep his thoughts to himself. True, he learned to withhold verbal displays of affection - but, before grief stripped his heart to nothing more than blood and sinew, he would have never hesitated to honor a memory by speaking it out loud.

Kíli keened softly into the softly stirring steam around them and Dís cared not at all that her skirts were soaking through and her hair had gone limp all around her face. She simply ran her fingers through his hair and cried softly with him. Kíli did not need to say anything at all, for her to know that he had not allowed himself to speak of his grief, or to show it, or to let it out since he had consigned his beloved uncle and brother to Mahal's eternal keep.

A year and a half's worth of tears dampened the wool of her skirt - which would probably be well ruined by the steam, the damp, and the drag of it across the rough-hewn floor. But, Dís ignored it all - in that sacred space, there were no titles, no expectations, no courtly expectations. There was simply a heart-broken son and his mother, who grieved with him more deeply than he would ever know.

"They walk with you, Kibil," Dís' words hung like gentle wisps in the air between them, as she smoothed her hand over the curve of her son's proud head. "They always will. Mahal has shown me that death does not have the power to sever that bond."

She spoke as if she were talking to herself, but it seemed as if the words helped. His sobs were still fierce, but they grew less frequent in the long, timeless minutes after her whispered promise.

Later, when Dís would look back on that time with Kíli, she would wonder if her mind was deceiving her. But, she would remember dark forms in the steam, more dense than the air, but not enough to be mortal forms. And she could have sworn that the familiar hands of kings and princes now gone reached forth and lay like voiceless blessings on the shoulders of her youngest son. She would also remember the moment that Kíli's sobs finally stopped and when he finally lifted his tear-stained face from her skirts, his eyes swollen with grief, but finally clear.

She would remember that as the moment when Erebor finally took its first breath of hope.

* * *

 **Reference**

 _ **Azsâlul'abad**_ \- Khuzdul name for the Lonely Mountain.

 _ **Kibil**_ \- means "silver". I thought it would work well for Kíli's secret name, since "Kíli" can be easily made by just shuffling the "l" over and dropping the "b". I have this working theory that a lot of dwarrow true-and-outer names might work this way. It also makes sense to me that a father/mother would know this name and occasionally use it in private moments like this. I also imagine a dwarf's One would know his name and he hers - it would be a very intimate, binding sort of thing and definitely appropriate in the context of a marriage, although I don't think that any of this ever explicitly stated in Tolkien's lore.


	8. A Matter of Masons

_"We'll ride in the gathering storm_

 _Until we get our long-forgotten gold."_

 **"** **Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Izgilnurt (Iz) 'Afkalm 27th**

 _(Monday April 26th)_

 _ **Erebor**_

* * *

The King of Erebor quickly discovered that letting go of his bottled grief did not solve any particular problem. Kíli found himself sitting on his throne the next morning, feeling as out of place as ever before. Indeed, one might wonder what good speaking of the dead and crying for them had done. But, he felt more present in the matters of state than he had before; while his heart still hung in his chest like a chunk of broken steel, the young king was able to finally free a part of his mind from the all-consuming, subconscious business of sorrow and actually focus on what was going on around him.

That morning, he had made a step - however small it was - toward an acceptance of his fate. His straight razor remained untouched by the wash basin in the corner of his bedroom; as quickly as his hair grew (as all dwarrow hair grew), he was quite certain that the doubting lords of the Iron Hills would see a difference in their King when they came searching for a reckoning six days hence. And a reckoning they would certainly seek, according to Dáin, who was speaking now:

"...There's dark mutterin's, _thanu men_. My old ears only hear whispers, but it's enough to know that there are enough voices wi' power an' wealth who would use the eastern interlock's collapse as sufficient cause to argue your abdication," the brilliantly-haired dwarf-lord shifted uncomfortably on his feet at the very mention of a mutiny against the throne.

"And what of you, Lord Dáin?" Kíli focused hard on modulating his voice - calm, collected, deep - and schooled his expressive features - detached, focused, impassive.

The young king sat properly in his throne, his boots planted quite firmly beside one another on the jadeite floor beneath him. His arms rested straight on the arms of the cool granite throne, hands draped across the ends to reveal the intricately carved rings he wore - silver on both of his thumbs to represent himself, gold on his right middle finger in memory of Fíli, and a recovered mithril on his left middle finger for Thorin. He was not dressed as regally as he would have been for a truly formal court, but the quality of his his jerkin still befitted his station. It was made out of a well-dyed wool that was a shade or two brighter than the blue Thorin had usually worn. Like Kíli's formal robe, the jerkin was edged with silver trim woven with geometric knot-work that mimicked his own personal sigil. His under-tunic was a simple, dark gray linen. Both tunic and jerkin were bound tightly at his waist with the same studded, sturdy leather belt he had worn as a member of his uncle's Company. Kíli's hair was neatly combed and bound in its usual way, pulled away from his face with a leather clasp. The Crown of Erebor – sparkling gold, ancient mithril and smoky obsidian - glinted across his brow and the King Under the Mountain tried not to fidget uncomfortably beneath its weight.

He had glanced at his reflection many times in the polished columns and crystal edifices of his regal halls; Kíli was well aware of how he looked, with the raven's wings sweeping across his brow. He thought of one such glimpse just mere hours before, when he had allowed Dís the honor of placing the crown on his head. His mother's name for him, the whole of his life, was "little raven". Perhaps, he was born for the crown, after all.

Kíli made every effort to keep his shoulders back and his broad chest pushed out, as if he were in a seated version of military attention. As if, perhaps, he actually believed that he had every right to sit in his uncle's throne, as if he was completely assured of himself.

It all felt like a lie, but Balin had long insisted that if one pretended long enough, a lie could become reality. Kíli sincerely hoped that this was true, else he would play quite the fool. But, Balin's council had never been in error before, so the young thane had decided that there was no harm in trying to put his best boot forward.

It seemed to be having a mostly positive effect, from what he could gather in the faces before him. Bofur hadn't stopped squinting up at him thoughtfully, sometimes nodding gently as if to himself, when Kíli made a particular move with his hands or asked a certain question. Ori - who he couldn't quite see, since the mousy Chronicler was to his left and only in his peripheral vision - was scratching away madly in his enormous tome of blank pages, even when nothing was being said. Which surely meant that he was sketching yet another portrait, although Kíli tried not to flatter himself and assume that Ori's quill-scritches were because of him. And Dáin had drawn his shoulders back and kept them there, proud and stout, when he had met Kíli's schooled and careful gaze from upon the Mountain's legendary throne.

Although, Dáin had not apparently pulled his shoulders or his spine to his full height until now. At Kíli's question, a fierceness flashed through Dáin's bright eyes and he puffed himself out in a subconscious display of unquestionable resolution. The strike of metal against metal rang through the open chamber, as the Lord of the Iron Hills smacked his gloved fist proudly into his chest-plate.

"I stand with my King, Your Majesty. As do all in my household," Dáin's beard all but quivered with the force of his sincerity. "You need never doubt that, sire."

"We don't," Kíli dipped his head graciously toward Dáin and for a moment, the two smiled at each other (although, the younger dwarf tried his best to keep his as understated and kingly as possible). "But, the loyalty of Dáin may well be mute, if we cannot resolve the issue of the eastern interlock. A thane who cannot find the means to build his own kingdom can be rightfully called into question."

The statement might have seemed self-effacing, but Kíli saw Balin nodding his snowy head in approval in the periphery of his right eye. The movement was slight, circumspect to be sure, but it bolstered Kíli's confidence enough for him to continue calmly:

"You bring more masons to us, Lord Dáin?"

"I do," Dáin's wild hair looked even more feral as he nodded his head vigorously. "Fourscore journeymen, ten apprentices, and one master."

"And what of the master's credentials?"

Dáin was quite unsuccessful in disguising a sudden grimace. There was a pause, then a short puff of resignation.

"He is just turned 85, sire, and..." Dáin took a deep breath and all but mumbled: "He passed his Master's Trial only a moon ago."

Kíli resisted the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his long nose. He did squint down at Dáin and tapped the fingers of his right hand once, twice, against the runes of protection and power that were carved into the stone beneath his sleeve. It wasn't Dáin's fault, however, that one utterly inexperienced master was all that he could offer to Erebor's reconstruction.

"We would speak to this Master of the Iron Hills," Kíli tapped his fingers again; to his surprise, Dáin looked rather startled by the request. "He is waiting in the Summoning Room, is he not?" one dark eyebrow arched toward the carved wing resting just above it.

"He...he is, Your Majesty," Dáin's chest puffed in and then out, as if he was at a loss for what to say; after a few seconds, he sighed heavily and threw his hands mildly up in the air beside him. "He is deaf and mute, Your Majesty. An' I fear he knows nothin' of the elegancies of court."

"Neither do you, if you flap your hands before your king," Kíli reprimanded gently, but there was enough of a smile about his lips for Dáin to relax after a moment of wide-eyed dismay.

"My apologies, _thanu men_ ," Dáin bowed respectfully and clenched his hands at his side - not in defiance, but in an effort to reign in his obvious frustration over the matter of the master.

"This is, however, an informal gathering, though it is held in our throne room and recorded for Memory," Kíli finally lifted his right hand and and rubbed it across his scruff; it was torture, sitting so still for so long. "Surely, your Master knows **iglishmêk**?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," the dwarf-lord confirmed immediately.

"Then we see no issue in requesting his presence," Kíli waved his hand dismissively and then set it back down across the arm-rest. "As we have already said, this is a mostly informal court, among kin. We will speak to him in iglishmêk and we will disregard any breach of etiquette that the Master may make, for this one time."

Dáin bowed again, Kíli's implied command understood - if the sole master mason of the Iron Hills was going to participate in the reconstruction of Erebor, then his presence in formal court, however infrequent, would be required. The intricacies of court was something the poor mason would have to learn, and quickly, if he was not to make a fool of himself, Dáin, or his King in the Council of Lords planned for the first day of **Gargbuzrâmrâg** , which was less than a week away. [ _"Deep Ale Fest"_ ]

As the guards at the entrance to the throne room reached up and heaved the tall iron doors open, Kíli propped his elbows more firmly on his armrests and clasped his hands together in front of his chest. In a formal court, he would not use iglishmêk himself - that would be Balin's duty. But, the young king meant to extend courtesy and respect to Dáin's master mason and there would be no harm done in using iglishmêk himself for this first meeting. As it was, Kíli had always quite liked the hand-language of his kin, and had frequently held whole conversations with Fíli over the years without ever once uttering a single word. He had not used iglishmêk since Fíli's death, however, and those closest to him would know that small detail. They would, in turn, mark his effort and know how deeply it cost him. They would recognize the subtle message that he was trying to get across – that he had accepted, or was at least trying to accept, that he was King Under the Mountain.

A diminutive form trotted obediently down the long, narrow walkway, a little too fast for the dignity required of meeting a king. But, the round face that politely refrained from looking up him was quite earnest and once the master had drawn abreast of Dáin, he bowed appropriately, if clumsily.

"Please tell the young Master that he may look at us," Kíli unclasped his hands and let them hang loosely above his lap, as he addressed Dáin. "We would speak with him ourselves."

"Yes, Your Majesty," his uncle's cousin nodded and after a few brief flickers of his fingers, the master mason turned wide gray eyes up at his king.

 _"You honor us with your presence, Master Mason,"_ Kíli's hands wove his words in front of him and he couldn't help a brief smile at the look of awe, respect, and appreciation that brightened the surprisingly beard-less face below him. _"Welcome to Erebor. Hail and well met. Please, give us your name, so that we may address you accordingly."_

 _"I am Alf, son of Althjof, of Ered Luin, Your Majesty,"_ the young master mason answered back, slowly at first, but as he eyed Kíli carefully for any sign of displeasure - and found none - his fingers flew faster. _"It is indeed my own honor to even walk the halls of mighty Erebor and to speak with the Lord of the Silver Fountains."_

Kíli dipped his head regally at Alf with a faint smile of approval that the sharp-eyed mason caught. The young dwarf was clearly shy and most unused to speaking to those far above his own station, but his shoulders straightened under the kindness of Kíli's approval.

 _"Tell us, Master Alf, have you studied the prints and plans of Erebor?"_ Kíli suspected he knew the answer - Dáin was a thorough man, for all his bluster and bellowing, and would have provided his master mason access to such information.

 _"Yes, sire,"_ Alf signed back immediately.

 _"Have you seen or studied the notes of the late Masters, Skirvir and Virvir?"_

 _"I have,"_ Alf nodded his head as he signed and only after he let his hands drop did he realize his mistake and added a belated (and bemused), _"Sire."_

 _"Do you know what went wrong in the eastern interlock?"_ Kíli watched Alf carefully for his response.

The mason - who was little, even for a dwarf - did not answer immediately. The King did not push him; Alf would answer in time and hurrying him for an answer would simply frighten the skittish young man. This was also a question of the greatest importance, which would determine whether or not Kíli would truly have to go back into Dale and seek the help of the cantankerous Kivi Journeyman.

Dáin had come to Erebor after the cave-in, fully prepared to provide what help he could to his new king. But, because of all the funeral arrangements, ceremonies, and condolences, Dáin hadn't had an opportunity to tell Kíli much of anything about the masons that he had brought from the Iron Hills. For a few moments, at least, Kíli had hoped that he wouldn't have to take Bard up on his advice, but as Alf answered, he realized that he may have little other choice.

 _"I must regretfully admit, sire, that I do not know what went wrong. My review of the materials I have been given, do not offer a ready explanation. I am an experienced mason, but Masters Skirvir and Virvir had almost a hundred years more of master-craft than I can claim,"_ Alf paused and his eyes searched Kíli's face nervously for any sign of anger or disappointment.

Kíli was disappointed, but he didn't want to undermine Alf's confidence.

 _"Please speak freely, Master Alf. You are wise to tell us your limitations so honestly."_

The dwarf-mason's chest - which was covered in a neat, if rather weathered, workman's apron - rose and fell as if in deep relief. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, Alf continued.

 _"I can find no fault in the Masters' plans,"_ Alf's face was earnest, as he continued speaking to his King in the only way they could. _"I have also taken the liberty to inspect what I could of the eastern interlock and its rubble. I do not possess the skill necessary to determine what went wrong and how to avoid a collapse from happening again, when we rebuild."_

 _"Is it possible that the eastern interlock could be rebuilt without the fear of another collapse?"_

 _"Yes, sire, that is possible. But it is not well-advised,"_ Alf's hands were steady and his eye-contact firm; he was certain in his reply. _"Without knowing what went wrong the first time, it would be foolish to rebuild again. I fear..."_ he paused, his fingers faltering.

 _"What does your skill tell you, Master?"_ Kíli leaned forward slightly, intent on watching Alf's small hands for his answer.

 _"I fear, sire, that the fault may not have lain with Masters Skivir or Virvir...nor with the dragon, Smaug,"_ Alf's eyes were wide and something like uncertainty tinged his gaze, but he continued to sign to Kíli, determined to obey his King's command. _"I fear that the fault may lay with the interlock's original creators."_

"Nonsense!" Dwalin huffed, but Kíli threw up his hand and shot his personal bodyguard and long-time protector a harsh look.

"It was once said that reclaiming this mountain was 'nonsense'," the young King pulled his shoulders back until they were resting, rigid and proud, against the back of his throne. "Yet, look at where we sit," he spread his hands open wide, inviting the gazes around him to take in - yet again - the incredible majesty of their ancestral home. "There is not a being in Middle Earth, Captain, that does not make wrong judgments."

Kíli's duly appointed Captain of the Guard bowed his head respectfully in acknowledgment of the point so made. For himself, the younger dwarf heaved an internal sigh and stared thoughtfully off into the distance, just beyond Alf's narrow right shoulder.

 _Perhaps if we hadn't assumed the infallibility of dwarven skill, much would be different,_ he thought to himself. Perhaps Bard has a point - some humility might do us well.

The Stiffbeard dwarrow-maid's brilliant halo of hair and piercing eyes came to mind, then. There was no confusing the matter - she was a fire and a tempest, and an unbending knee. Her words had cut deep - _"Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further. But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I chose to rebuild Dale over yon Erebor ."_

She had defied him, had put her hands upon him (not that Kíli had much minded), and had treated him as if the crown he now wore on his head was nothing more than a woven braid of posies. Her refusal to help Erebor confused him, as Kíli had never encountered such a lack of solidarity from another dwarf.

Then again...Thorin had called for the Seven Houses to meet at Ered Luin and all to a one had refused to contribute troops to the retaking of Erebor. Even Dáin had initially refused; Thorin had, however, been frustrated, but not bitter. He had, instead, made the best of what he had - not the best nor the brightest, Balin had pointed out that fateful night at Bag End - and had welcomed Dáin's belated arrival with gratitude, not anger. For the first time, Kíli wondered who of the Eastern lords had answered Thorin's call and who had stood before his uncle on behalf of the Stiffbeards. No doubt, it was a man like Jarvi, but the cheerful smile on Kivi's face before she realized that Kíli was not a fellow Stiffbeard swam into focus. Had it been one like her? A rare dwarrow-dam, full of passion and pride?

What was it that the master mason had said? _"You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself."_ Kíli stroked his chin and turned those Northern words over in his mind for a long moment, before he finally focused on Alf again.

The throne room had gone still and silent. Kíli could feel the tips of his ears turn red in embarrassment. He hadn't meant to drift into his own thoughts in the middle of a conversation, but at least he had used that time to make something of a decision.

 _"Master Alf, thank you for your council and for your wise accounting of your skills. You will serve our Kingdom well..."_ Kíli paused for dramatic effect and held Alf's eyes meaningfully for several long seconds. _"But, we must ask one last question, before releasing you to return to your own valuable time: could you work without conflict with another master mason?"_

 _"Assuredly, sire. It would be my great honor and pleasure,"_ Alf replied instantly, eagerly.

Kíli couldn't help a dry smile as he added the all-important punchline:

 _"Even a daughter of Thulin? A master mason of **Gabilzahar**?"_

Alf's gray eyes grew wide, until they seemed to dominate the totality of his expression. For a moment, the little mason just quivered in his very boots and Kíli began to worry that he had given the master dwarf enough of a shock to induce a failure of the heart.

Alf's answer, however, was everything Kíli had hoped for and none of what he had expected.

 _"A true master mason? A Mestari of the Stiffbeards? Sire, a Stone Master of the North would be a highest honor to Erebor. I would willingly rank myself as a mere apprentice again, for the opportunity to work under the chisel and mallet of a Stiffbeard mason."_

Well. That settled that. Almost, anyway - Kíli wasn't quite sure Alf comprehended the full details of what he was getting so excited over.

 _"Even if this master were a woman? A maid of your own age?"_ Kíli was guessing here, but based on the lines on Kivi's face and the lack of others, he guessed her to be a contemporary either of himself or Alf.

 _"If she is a Mestari of Gabilzahar, it matters not,"_ Alf waved a dismissive hand between his words. _"Male or female, it makes no difference. She would have no parallel in the West, sire."_

* * *

 **Reference**

 **Iglishmêk** – the secret hand-language of the Khazâd. I imagine it to be something like the hand signals we use in the military, but better developed, like ASL (American Sign Language), so that conversations can be held in the din of a dwarven smithy or mine.

 **Gargbuzrâmrâg** – the "Deep Ale Fest"; this festival runs from the 9th to the 19th of the 8th Month (the 26th of May - 5th of June, for the purposes of this story). The Deep Ale Fest celebrates the hard work of the dwarrow – I won't say more than that, since it'll be described more in-depth in upcoming chapters.

 **Gabilzahar** – the Khuzdul name for Kivi Torni, home of the Stiffbeards.


	9. More Questions Than Answers

_"We lay under the Misty Mountains cold_

 _In slumbers deep and dreams of gold."_

 **"Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Izgilnurt (Iz), 'Afkalm 27th**

 _(Monday April 26th)_

 _ **Erebor**_

* * *

"You're not thinkin' o' askin' that thrice-damned shrew again?" Bofur just gaped stupidly at Kíli from across the length of the narrow Council Room.

"Third time's the charm?" Kíli shrugged, with some of his old cheek rising to the fore.

"Don't make jest, Your Majesty!" Bofur's mustache trembled indignantly. "I dare say we can make due wi' Master Alf!"

"Except no one's askin' ya' fer ya' say," Dwalin drawled laconically from his post by the fire.

The enormous (for a dwarf) warrior had one thick arm resting above the other, as his chest was entirely too wide to cross them as perhaps Ori or Nori could. One foot was draped casually over the other, as Dwalin rested the bulk of his weight on one leg and against the corner of the carved fireplace mantle. The older dwarf fixed Bofur with a warning gaze, which the engineer respected, but not without a put-upon little huff into his mustache.

"An', dinna' kin if ya' noticed," Dwalin continued, his eyes hard fixed on the fuming Bofur. "But, I dare say that Master Alf looks as if one good push o' the wind would send 'im tumblin' feet o'er head into the nearest ravine. We need another option if that should happen."

"Well," Bofur snorted and stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. "One certainly couldn't say that damned dwarf-maid is anything but stout. Lass is so prickly, she coulda' chased Smaug outta' here just by lookin' at 'im."

"What is all this talk of a dwarrow-maid?" Dís had quietly entered the Council Room while Dwalin and Bofur had fussed at each other.

Upon realizing her presence, every man in the room either stood up or stood up straighter. Kíli quickly grabbed his chair at the head of the Council Table, which he wasn't using, and beckoned for his mother to take her seat among them. Dís did so, moving through the gathering of men with more grace and fluidity than one might have otherwise expected from a dwarrow-dam. Only after she had settled her skirts about her - today, a cheerful robin's egg blue - did she look expectantly toward Bofur, who blushed clear to the tips of his fuzzy hat.

"Ah...well...ah…" Bofur stuttered, shocked not only to be speaking to the sole Princess of Erebor (a long-time and well-known recluse among the Blue Mountain dwarrow), but to be in the presence of a dwarf-dam in general.

Dís just smiled brightly at Bofur and shook her head; her dark eyes, so much like her elder brother's, slid over toward her son. She lifted a thick, but gently groomed, eyebrow at Kíli and teasingly demanded:

"There's a dwarrow-maid?"

Kíli immediately flushed a bright red and even he stammered in the wake of his mother's words.

"Ah...uh...n-not quite like that, Mother," he sputtered, thankful to be only in the company of those who had known him since his dwarfling days.

"Though, she is a right beauty," Ori piped up without thinking; when every single set of eyes in the room turned to him; the gentle scribe blushed as well and immediately found something quite fascinating about the stone beneath his feet.

"Do tell, Master Ori," Dís continued to smile brightly and propped her chin on the palm of her hand, as she leaned against the carved rests of Kíli's oaken chair.

Conflicted, Ori glanced up at Kíli, who was darkly mouthing the words "don't you dare" at him. The scribe then glanced at Dís, who was as winsome as any fresh-faced dwarrow-maid, and Ori gulped. He was helpless against Dís' considerable charms and he tried not to look at Kíli as he hesitantly answered her.

"Oh, aye, Your Highness," he didn't dare speak above a whisper, as if that would somehow spare him from Kíli's indignation. "A right beauty she is. Like a sunset in winter," he nodded, quite pleased with his imagery. "Brilliant, flaming hair, an' lots o' it! An' the brightest blue eyes, rather like F-" Ori stopped himself immediately and lost his nerve.

He had been about to say "like Fíli's" and his heart pounded in his chest. What a cruel thing to say to the heir apparent's grieving mother.

"L-like f-frost on the River Runnin'," Ori cleared his throat and continued bravely, not daring now to look at anyone in the room, but still quite determined to recover from his inexcusable slip of the tongue. "When the afternoon sun hits it."

"So, like Fíli's," Dís murmured softly; startled, Ori snapped his gaze up to hers and was perplexed to see her still smiling.

Although, on second glance, it was a smile tinged with sadness. Ori dipped his head again, unable to voice his apology, but hoping the Princess would forgive him all the say.

"It is quite fine to speak the names of our dead," Dís continued a little louder, as if sensing Ori's thoughts. "And to compare the eyes of a dwarrow-maid to Prince Fíli's is quite certainly the highest of compliments."

Kíli, for his part, swallowed thickly and tried not to think that Ori was right in his comparison. Kivi did indeed have eyes as brightest blue like Fíli's - although, perhaps, hers were better compared to Thorin's, as stormy as he had seen them.

"And who is such a lass, to remind you of a friend and prince so dear?" Dís titled her head, eyes and mouth still gentle, but now sad.

Ori opened his mouth to answer, but Bofur's grumbling beat him to it.

"I assure ya', that's where the resemblance stops. An ill-tempered creature, that one," before anyone could take Bofur to task for his unflattering assessment of a dwarrow-maid who wasn't present to defend herself, Erebor's chief engineer barreled onward. "We've lost too much, sire," Bofur turned beseechingly toward his king. "Why must we grovel for the aid of a lass who doesnna' wanna' give it?"

"Well, I wasn't intending on groveling -" Kíli began, but Bofur cut him off.

"But, you _are_ , even if that's not your intent," the older dwarf looked his younger ruler straight in the eye, his jaw clenched in something like defiance. "We keep comin' back around and back again over this master mason business. We need one, aye, an' I don't deny that. I think I can say that as Chief Engineer, I know that fact better than anyone else in this room. But, why must we chase after a woman who won't even call us kin? I say leave 'er to rebuild Dale's walls and may **Durin's Bane** 'ave 'er."

There was a long silence at that, until Dís gently interjected:

"I do insist - who is this lass that so troubles the proud sons of Durin?"

"Kivi Journeyman," Kíli finally answered, his words dragging past his lips reluctantly. "And according to Master Bard, who introduced us to her, Master Kivi troubles us because we are proud."

"Ooh," Balin huffed into his snowy-white beard. "I would have loved to have been a mouse in the corner for that conversation."

Kíli shot his loyal and level-headed adviser a dour look. Balin was forever - for as long as Kíli had known him - grumbling about Durin's pride as if he weren't one of Erebor's sons himself.

"Is this lovely lass a Firebeard, then?" Dís frowned ever so slightly, as she thought of the Longbeard's irascible cousins, who were more than well known for their scarlet hair and flaming tempers.

"She is not a dwarf of the West," Kíli shook his head. "Master Kivi is a daughter of Thulin, a Stiffbeard."

Dís' eyebrows began to knit over her eyes as she considered her son's news. All eyes fixated on her as she gazed into the fire for a moment and unconsciously nibbled her bottom lip.

"How odd," the Princess murmured thoughtfully, with a sidelong frown toward Bofur. "You said something about her rebuilding Dale?" Dís pressed. "So, she chooses to live among the Men?"

"Aye, Your Highness," Bofur confirmed gruffly. "She even said she'd spent time in the south, workin' in Dol Amroth."

"What a strange lass," Kíli's mother tapped a bejeweled and painted finger against her lips. "A female master mason, a dwarrow-dam, traveling alone among the cities of Men? This in and of itself would be quite curious, but a Stiffbeard as well? They haven't been seen in the West since the great defeat of Azanulbizar."

"She doesn't travel alone," Ori jumped in as Dís took a breath and a pause; he then realized his rudeness and stammered: "M-ma'am."

"A company, then?" Dís' eyebrows rose higher.

"She was accompanied by a man named 'Jarvi', the other day," Kíli, too, was intrigued and he leaned forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. "Her cousin," he frowned slightly, choosing not to mention Jarvi's curious mix of dwarven and Mannish features. "I didn't know that she had other companions."

"Just a few more," Ori explained slowly, not quite sure what his information would mean to the King and the Princess. "There is the Stiffbeard smith, Master Seppä, who has traveled with her. Also, Katrikki, the Ice Elf, and Etsijä, a Man of the Fodorwaith."

"And the two dwarflings," Kíli added; Ori nodded.

"Aye, Master Kivi's niece and nephew."

"Two dwarflings, three Stiffbeards – two masters of their craft – an Elf, and a Man," Dís titled her head prettily, but her gaze was quite intense as she looked toward her son. "A curious party, indeed."

Kíli frowned thoughtfully at his mother and then toward the fire. He, too, chewed his bottom lip for a moment as he considered what Jarvi had revealed about his company's circumstances.

 _"There is trouble in the North, in our home of Kivi Torni. We left that home because of it..."_

"I will admit that I know very little about the Stiffbeards, but I have met one, once," Dís spoke to the fire, her voice and memory taken to ages long past. "Frerin was sent home once during the War, to recover from a severe wound to his shoulder. Thorin could not be spared, so Frerin was accompanied by a Stiffbeard he had befriended, an engineer named Vasara, who was frequently addressed by a title I've never heard since," Dís paused a moment, to recall the exact name. "Eldest – or Elder – Brother, I think.

"Vasara did not speak much, but he had a good and cheerful spirit. He held his friendship with Frenir in high regard and told me once that he quite respected the Line of Durin. He was proud to give us aid and to travel from the safety of his homeland to help us reclaim ours. He had a saying that has always stuck with me -"

"'You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself,'" Kíli interrupted, the words tumbling from his mouth instinctively.

Color tinged the apples of his cheeks, though, when he realized that he had cut off his mother and he glanced over at her with an apology poised on his tongue. Dís, however, was now looking at him with something like amazement and if she was offended by her son's disrespect, she didn't show it.

"How do you know that?" she all but gasped.

"I met Master Kivi in Dale the other day," Kíli grimaced - his impromptu trips to Dale were something he preferred to keep to himself when possible. "With Bofur. We, ah…" the young king sighed deeply and squared his shoulders defensively as he sat up on his stool. "We exchanged some rather heated words, Master Kivi and I. Toward the end of our conversation, she uttered that very saying and then I called her a hypocrite," Kíli turned his head up toward the mountain above them, as if seeking divine intervention. "That was not a conversation that ended well."

"She met you and yet still refused to help Erebor?" Dís seemed even more shocked by that, than by the fact that her son had engaged in a verbal altercation with said mason.

"I don't think I was what she was expecting," the edges of Kíli's lips twisted a wry sort of half-smile and he glanced down at his hands, which hung casually between his knees. "Her cousin thought I was a Stiffbeard, too, and greeted me accordingly. I think she thought the same as well, at first."

Kíli thought back to the look on Kivi's face, when she had first laid eyes on him. That, truly, was Kíli's first impression of her - a wide smile, dimpled cheeks, and sparkling eyes. She had seemed surprised, but hopeful, even excited; the change in her expression when he had been revealed as king had been stark.

"She was disappointed to find out who I really was," Kíli admitted quietly, his mind still turning over the meeting of the day before. "Being surprised and disappointed in one fell swoop would certainly make anyone reluctant to put forth their best selves."

Bofur grunted.

"I don't think she 'as a better self."

"Master Bard says she does," Kíli's broad shoulders rolled beneath his finely-spun tunic.

"I still don't understand how she can so easily help a Man and not you," Bofur continued to object.

"You were there, Bofur. You know the answer to that as well I as do. She said she was not yet ready to trust me," Kíli pushed a sigh through his teeth and shifted in his seat. "As I'm a total stranger – and all of you within in this mountain by extension – I cannot fault her for that, really."

A contemplative silence fell over the council room after that. Kíli leaned his elbows on his knees and his hair fell forward to create a sort of curtain about his face. Usually, he hated having his hair in his eyes like that, but he was grateful for the momentary privacy it afforded him. He stared hard at the tips of his boots, seeing past them with barely blinking eyes.

He found Kivi Journeyman fascinating, in spite of her brazen defiance. While he secretly agreed with Bofur and thought Kivi might be a few arrows short of a full quiver, Kíli couldn't shake what Jarvi had said about their reasons for being so far from home. She wasn't simply distrusting and stubborn. By her cousin's own words, Kivi – and all those in her company – was running away from something that lingered far beyond the reaches of Kíli's kingdom. He was starting to think that it was perhaps best that he didn't immediately involve his own kin in an affair that wasn't of their own making. Perhaps Kivi's reluctance to throw her lot in with them was more wise, than it was defiant.

"I think that Master Kivi carries secrets with her that may or may not be a danger to Erebor," Kíli finally lifted his gaze and shook his head to try and move some of his hair from about his face. "Perhaps we should take heed of her choices and observe her for a while, from a distance. Let us make due with Master Alf for now," he sighed heavily and tried not to think of the response this decision would mostly likely solicit from his growing dissenters. "And wait to see if Master Bard's high opinion of Master Kivi is warranted."

Kíli then fixed Ori with a firm gaze.

"How did you know about Master Kivi's traveling companions?"

The little scribe cleared his throat nervously and answered in his meekest tones.

"I run errands for Óin and pick up herbs, teas, and other medicines from Dale each week. Master Kivi's companion, the Elf-maid Katrikki, is a skilled healer, with a knowledge of herbs and their uses that so far has no equal in Erebor or Dale. I pick up Óin's weekly requests from her and," Ori dropped his gaze from Kíli's dark eyes, to Kíli's dark boots. "We talk."

Frankly, Kíli was rather impressed by Ori's admission, although the scribe seemed to think that he would anger his king. Ori had always been quite shy and virtually incapable of speech around any member of the fairer sex. Kíli had seen several of the new dwarrow-maids try to strike up conversations with Ori during feasts. On more than one occasion, what he had seen had made the young king chuckle - not unkindly - into his ale, as he watched Ori turn bright red and all but flee from the festivities. The idea that Ori would voluntarily converse with a woman of any race was quite novel.

 _Perhaps there's hope for him after all,_ Kíli couldn't help a fleeting grin (which Ori missed, thankfully).

"What is the nature of your conversations?" Balin asked gently. "And don't look down, Ori. You've done nothing wrong."

"Unusual," Dori grunted with eyebrows raised at his youngest brother's uncharacteristic confession. "But, not wrong."

Encouraged by Balin's smile and Dori's assurance that all was well, Ori looked up from the floor and met Kíli's eyes again.

"We talk mostly of herbs and their uses. Katrikki will tell me tales of her childhood and legends of the North. She has told me a little of the history of the Stiffbeards and their culture. She has been silent about what brought her and her companions to the West, though. I must confess that I haven't wanted to pry," Ori made a face, as if kicking himself mentally for not being more nosy.

Kíli sensed Ori's chagrin and waved his hand dismissively.

"There's been no reason for you to dig into their business," his hand then turned to brush thoughtfully across the stubble along his jawline. "And there still isn't good cause, really."

The king leaned back on his stool, until his lower back bumped softly up against the edge of the Council table. He folded his arms over his chest and considered his words before speaking again.

"Have you recorded any of your conversations with Mistress Katrikki?"

It was well known among those who had traveled with Ori to Erebor that he wrote down everything. Or, at least, it certainly seemed that way. He was never without quill or book, and the tips of his fingers were always blackened by ink. If he wasn't writing, he was drawing; once, Fíli had jokingly asked if Ori planned to scribe what they all ate for dinner in the Royal Chronicles. A joke that might have been, but it wasn't too far from the truth. Ori had admitted to Fíli that while, no, what they ate for dinner was not exactly worthy of the Chronicles, he did jot down details about each day in his own personal journal.

As Kíli suspected, the sandy-haired scribe nodded his head in the affirmative; the braids that framed his face swished merrily against his cheeks.

"Yes, sire. I've kept a detailed account of our meetings."

"Excellent," Kíli stood up and stretched with a yawn that he made no attempt to hide. "Would you drop your notes off at my chamber, before you go to bed? I'd like to read them."

Ori looked like he didn't know whether to be pleased or concerned. He settled for a careful smile and a meek bow of his head.

"Of course. I can go and fetch my journal now, if you'd like."

"Please," Kíli stifled another yawn with the burly width of his right forearm.

Everyone else who had been sitting (except for Dís) stood when Kíli rose to his feet. Ori was the first to move toward the door; the others could tell that their king was bringing their meeting to a close, but waited patiently for him to officially dismiss them. Just as Glóin stepped aside to let Ori grasp the door's cumbersome bolt, Kíli called to his friend to stop for just a moment.

"Just so you know, Ori," Kíli dropped some of his formality for the moment - it was still hard for him to be "the King" to his peers and close companions at all times. "I'm not asking you to spy on Master Kivi or anyone else. Please continue having your conversations with Madame Katrikki in whatever way suits you best. I only ask that you let me read your notes each week - any information about the Stiffbeards and their kin is of value."

"Will you not ask Master Kivi to rebuild Erebor?" encouraged by Kíli's informal address, Ori turned a little more fully toward his king, though his hand still lingered on the bolt.

"Not for now," Kíli sighed heavily and ran a hand through his long, slightly-tangled hair. "I think it's best if we keep our distance for a time. We will rely on Master Alf and Bofur, and whatever help can be gathered from those who remain."

"What about the Council of Lords? That's a mere four days away," Ori pressed hesitantly, as if he feared the answer.

"The dice fall where they may," Kíli's hand fell to his side with a half-hearted shrug. "There is only so much that can be done to influence the will of others," his eyes grew dark with a determination he hadn't felt since standing up to Thorin over breaking his promise to Dale. "To use Bofur's word, I will not grovel before any of the Khazâd - Stiffbeard, Longbeard, or otherwise."

* * *

Kíli stretched out on top of his bed with a contented groan. It had been a seemingly endless day and he was glad to be finally free of it. He felt, however, that he had ended it on a positive note, as his declaration to stand tall against his opposition among the Western dwarrow had been met with vocal approval from his councilors.

He decided, however, not to spend any further time ruminating over the events of the day. What was done was done and he was quite tired of thinking over any of it. Kíli treasured his time alone - even when Fíli had been alive, Kíli would often steal away from his brother's side and spend a few hours by himself. The two of them had appeared inseparable to the outside world and indeed, during the quest for Erebor they had been, but Kíli had always needed time to be on his own. Of the two of them, Fíli was actually the extrovert, although he hid it well behind the austere mask of the heir apparent. Kíli, however, was an introvert - a fact that many never realized, for all of the young Durin's chatter in his princely days. Fíli had always enjoyed dealing with people and never seemed to tire of them - Kíli had always been quite the opposite, preferring instead to deal with the world in his own way and time.

A mug of half-drunk tea stood on his bedside table, just within reach, and Ori's blue-dyed leather journal lay across Kíli's bare stomach. He had quickly divested himself of his fine clothing the instant his bedroom door had closed behind him; all that remained were his pants, which hung low on his hips without the aid of a belt. The luxurious, silky strands of the wolf pelt that covered one side of the enormous bed was warm against his lower back, and the fluffy pillows propped up behind his shoulders did their best to lure him to sleep. A large window to the left of his bed had been opened and a warm, almost-summer breeze wafted pleasantly across his skin.

Yawning loudly, Kíli picked up Ori's journal, determined to finish the last few entries before he allowed himself to finally fall asleep. So far, the reading had been - as Ori had promised - quite fascinating and Kíli was beginning to piece together a portrait of life in the Northern Wastes.

Ori and Katrikki had talked more about the Stiffbeards than Ori had let on in the Council Room, and it was this information that Kíli prized the most. They were a complex dwarrow and, according to Katrikki's claim, the wealthiest of the Eastern Houses – a fact that they hid behind a surprising humility. The Stiffbeards were a proud people, however - as proud as any Durin's son - and apparently perceived themselves as the leaders of the dwarrow in the East.

Kíli made a quick note in a journal of his own, which lay on the bed to his right - he intended to ask Balin about the Stiffbeard's claim of superiority within the North and East. For all that he had grown up in his brother's and uncle's shadows, Kíli knew little about the politics between Eastern and Western Khazâd. Did the House of Thulin truly rule over the East? Could they therefore claim equal status with their Western counterparts among Durin's folk? If so, it could easily explain Kivi's unwillingness to bow to Erebor's crown.

Kíli eyed his inelegant scribbles and thanked Mahal that Balin would never see the inside of his own journal. Penmanship had never been his strong-suit, for all of Dís' valiant efforts and Thorin's thunderous criticisms.

Turning back to Ori's memories, Kíli rubbed a hand absently across the thick, black hair that covered the broad expanse of his chest. His fingers lingered subconsciously against the jagged, star-shaped scar left by Bolg, but for once, his concentration wasn't derailed by the feel of his puckered skin. He flipped a page with his other hand and Ori's latest account - dated two weeks before - thoroughly captured his interest.

 _"...A most curious thing happened today, when I went to visit Katrikki's apothecary. It was a quick meeting, so we did not have our usual opportunity to talk about things that didn't pertain to my errand. But, Katrikki was as beautiful and gracious as always; she offered me a cup of a new blend she had made, and I stayed for about half of an hour to enjoy her company._

 _"Katrikki was quite busy - apparently, Dale's younger denizens have been experiencing a rash of **morbilli** and she had been working without stop. She took the time to wrap up Oin's requests as always and we chatted quite pleasantly about tinctures and ointments suitable for childhood ailments. As we were talking, however, we had an unprecedented visitor – Master Kivi all but burst into the apothecary, her expression quite perplexed._

 _"She did not see me, as I was sitting at the far end of Katrikki's great big table, in the shadows toward the back of the store. Without any preamble at all, Master Kivi asked Katrikki if she had a mixture of **Klamath weed** and **lavandula**. Katrikki seemed quite surprised, but answered that she did; I must confess I was quite shocked myself, as Klamath weed and lavandula are strong treatments for terrors of the mind and anxieties of the heart. Katrikki immediately set about making another tea for Master Kivi to take with her; they talked quietly as she worked, but I could hear quite clearly what was said._

 _"When Katrikki asked why she would need such a mixture in the middle of the day, Master Kivi admitted that some of her workmen had been sharing with her details of Smaug's desolation and the Battle of the Five Armies. Master Kivi confessed that the workmen were, perhaps, a little too detailed in their accounts and had triggered 'memories of the Harrowing'. I saw that her hands shook quite noticeably when she took her tea from Katrikki. While I cannot fathom what this 'Harrowing' might have been, it was clearly distressing enough to affect Master Kivi from words alone. Her reaction - her wide eyes, shaking body, and roughened voice - are too similar to what I have seen in Dori and Nori, when the night terrors awaken them and the memories of our devastations come back to them. Klamath weed and lavandula is what I pick up each week, as well, for the King, to manage his own memories and heartaches._

 _"Master Kivi left without ever once glimpsing me in the corner. Katrikki did not swear me to secrecy, but she did give me a look once the Master had left, that quite clearly asked me to keep this knowledge to myself. I do not know what haunts Master Kivi, but I would not deign to dishonor it by spreading about word of what I've seen. Some great calamity has touched the lives of our Northern kin and I do hope Katrikki – or even Master Kivi herself – may trust me well enough one day to tell me what they have seen."_

Ori's journal lay open for many long moments after Kíli had concluded his reading. He drew one knee up as he pressed his right foot into the mattress; his left arm slid under his neck, to prop his head up as he frowned up at the deep blue drapes that covered the top of his four-poster bed.

"What is your story, Kivi Journeyman?" he gently asked the night in a voice deepened by thought and exhaustion. "And _who_ are you?"

* * *

 **Reference**

 **Durin's Bane** – the name given to the Balrog of Moria/Khazad-dûm.

 **Morbilli** – another name for measles.

 **Klamath weed** – another name for St. John's Wort, which is an herbal treatment for mild-to-moderate depression.

 **Lavandula** – another name for lavender, which is traditionally used to calm one's nerves (anxiety).


	10. The Harrowing

**A/N:** It gets a little heavy in this chapter, folks (and _not_ in the fun way). Trigger warnings: violence, character death, trauma, etc...all the fun stuff that comes with war and killing.

* * *

 _"We must awake, our lives to make_

 _And in the darkness a torch we hold."_

 **"Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

 **Neil Finn**

* * *

 **Izgilnurt (Iz) 'Afkalm 27th**

 _(Monday April 26th)_

 _ **Dale**_

* * *

 _"Kyllikko! Keep up, **Pikkusisko**."_ ["Little Sister"]

 _The words echoed through Kivi's mind, as she tossed about in a restless sleep. His was a voice she could never quite forget, whether awake or sleeping. She remembered the strength of his shoulders, the warm skin of his bared arms, and the cool, hardened leather of his intricately tooled chest-plate. She remembered his long hair, free of braids as was the tradition of their unmarried men; it was as dark as a_ losrandir's _summer coat. She remembered the way it felt against her cheek, when he stooped to pick her up._

 _She had tripped on a bit of stone that jutted unevenly from the otherwise smooth staircase beneath her feet. The darkened stairwell up which her savior and she was fleeing was ancient - an old escape way, built long ago by her fore-mothers, when Kivi Torni was still young. Kiinteä had grabbed her from the chaos and carnage of the Sky Hall, where she had been watching her father, Oskari, hold an open court on behalf of her mother. The joyous news had been shared during the Midsummer Fest, which had just ended a mere handful of days before, that **Äiti** Taavi, Chieftain of the Stiffbeards, was four months pregnant with the third heir of Thulin. Oskari, as the High Shaman, had proclaimed the unborn babe a girl, based on the portents read in bone and wood. Taavi was reclining in her private chambers at the top of the mountain's namesake tower and much of the ruling would pass to Oskari until the birth. _ ["Mother"]

 _Kylli had been standing next to her father when the **Kivi Vartija** sounded the alarm. The Strongest Father - as Oskari was officially known - had been holding his daughter's hand gently, her small forearm resting on top of his, when the fell Ironfist lord stormed into the Hall with a clash of bloodied steel. Oskari had turned only long enough to tell Kylli to hide, before he roared to his feet and drew a sword from the scabbard of the startled Vartija standing beside the Chair of Council. _ ["Stone Guard"]

 _Kylli had been transfixed, however, by the sight of her flame-haired father thundering into the fray, intent on challenging the obsidian-armored Ironfists. Despite her father's rallying cry to the Vartija, the Hall was a slaughter, as only the Vartija could enter before the Seats of Thulin while armed. The Ironfists quickly carved their way through the merchants, farmers, herders, and other assorted common-folk who had gathered to seek council from their " **Isä** ". The sentry bells, however, were clanging furiously, summoning all those within hearing distance to hurry the aid of their kinfolk._ ["Father"]

 _Oskari's curved sword met the saw-toothed edge of the Lord Ironfist's hooked seax, but before Kylli could watch much more of her father's fight, her upper arm was grabbed by a vice-like hand. She screamed, but the sound of it was lost in the din of death and battle that sullied the brightly-lit walls of the Hall._

 _"Kylli! It's me! Kiinteä!"_

 _She beat her knuckles against the hard shell of his leather armor once, twice, before realizing who had taken a hold of her. Startled, she stared up into familiar eyes as deep and smoky-brown as the colored quartz so greatly favored by their kin._

 _"Kiin!" Kylli threw her arms around his hard waist and buried her face in the uncomfortable angles of his armor._

 _"Not now, Kyl," Kiin gently pulled her off of him and grabbed her wrist; he threw an uncertain eye around them, but the Vartija had managed to keep the Ironfists from advancing any further toward her father's abandoned seat._

 _Kylli followed his gaze and saw her father's stout body - ever so slightly taller and leaner than other dwarrow men - heave furiously against the armored might of his burlier opponent. All she could see was a flash of bright steel stained with blood and her father's thick red braids flying about in his wake. Kiin pulled her firmly along behind him before she could witness any more and made a beeline for a small antechamber just behind her father's high-backed Chair._

 _The young heir of Thulin allowed herself to be led away, although her heart twisted painfully in fear for her father. The Sky Hall had erupted into a melee of steel and gore, but she had seen enough to know that the invading swords were sharp and that the Ironfist's grotesquely-shaped black armor was true. She had seen blood stain the white granite stones of her home and in mere moments, she had seen more than one of her kin - dwarf, Elf, Man - torn in half by jagged blades._

 _Kylli followed Kiin without question - she was just on the cusp of her first moon and a young dwarfling in that awkward stage between child and adolescent. But, she knew what she was to Kiin and what Kiin to her; they had grown up together, she always looking up to him, as he was seven years her elder. But, despite their age difference, Kiin had been her dearest friend all of her life; now that she was growing older, their friendship was just beginning to deepen with the first blush of something sweeter._

 _Kiin was the only son of the Captain of the Vartija - the jovial, but deadly, Miekka. He had been initiated into the Kivi Vartija three years earlier and was one of the youngest Vartija currently serving in Kivi Torni. Miekka was, himself, of common birth, but that was of little significance to the "Äiti" or the "Isä" – to Taavi or Oskari – as men were in such lesser numbers to women among their House. It also didn't hurt that Miekka had grown up with Oskari and the two had remained fast friends throughout the years; where Oskari went, Miekka was very rarely far behind. The same could be said for their offspring - Kiin had long ago determined that he was to be Kylli's constant companion._

 _And now, he had become Kylli's protector._

 _"Where are you taking me?" Kylli asked only once._

 _Kiin whisked her into the antechamber and threw his shoulder hastily against a certain granite block, next to a smiling statue of Yavanna - who was, perhaps more revered among the Stiffbeards than any of the other dwarrow, for their dependency on the earth above, as much on the earth below. A grinding sound accompanied the shift of two blocks by their feet; Kylli stared, wide-eyed, as an entrance was revealed in the base of the wall before them._

 _"To Äiti," he promised, with a jerk of his chin toward the levels above them._

 _The entrance into the secret passageway was low, so they both had to crawl through; Kiin let Kylli go first, in case part of the battle in the Hall behind them spilled over into the antechamber. But, she was able to stand up on the other side and brush off her buttery-soft leather pants without incident. Kiin followed, pushed a corresponding stone in the cool darkness around them, and sealed them into the ancient tunnel. For several long moments, there was a scraping and shuffling from where Kiin stood, as he struck a flint and lit a crystal lamp that had been left on a hook just inside the passage._

 _"C'mon," he urged her toward a spiraling set of stairs and the two started the arduous journey up the whole length of Gabilzahar's great tower._

 _They went as fast as they could, jogging up each flight of stairs, but Kylli began to tire a quarter of the way up. It was then that she caught the tip of her boot against the rough stone and fell forward with a muffled cry. Before she could even gather that she had skinned her right knee and both of her palms, Kiin had swooped down to pick her up. As if she weighed nothing (which was certainly not true of any dwarf at any age), he cradled her in his arms and continued the long climb up._

 _Kylli was too frightened by everything that had happened, to do anything other than accept Kiin's comfort and to take the swinging crystal lamp from him while both of his hands were full of her still-slight body. She curled one arm around his powerful neck and hid her face in his hair, which covered his shoulders in a tangled disarray. She would remember, ever after, how her bright locks seemed to tangle into his like ribbons of molten bronze._

 _Kiin had to pause several times on his way up; despite his endurance and strength from hours of hard training, the seemingly never-ending stairs were an exhausting challenge. A few times, Kylli tried to urge him to let her down, but Kiin just tightened his arms around her and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line of determination._

 _Kylli would never quite know how long it took for them to get from the base of the tower to the top, but her best guess in later reflections would place their time at a half of an hour or even more. However long had passed, it was enough for their emergence from behind Äiti Taavi's full-length chamber mirror to be greeted with the sight of their chief fighting for her life._

 _Miekka was sprawled across the floor in front of the arched chamber doorway, impaled through the chest with an iron javelin. His thick black hair mercifully covered most of his face, so both young dwarves were spared the sight of his empty gray eyes, which had just hours before, laughed at his son as they left their quarters for the day. Kiin stumbled in shock and Kylli could feel his knees tremble uncertainly beneath their combined weight and sudden grief. The grinding slide and scrape of steel tore both of their eyes away from the Captain's broken body; Taavi stood bravely in the center of her spacious, circular chamber, arms braced at the level of her chest as she caught the Ironfist's downward strike against the mithril handle of her war mallet._

 _"Äiti!" Kylli cried out without thinking; she immediately reached out for her mother and in her haste, dropped the crystal lantern that Kiin had given to her for safe-keeping._

 _Her cry and the bitter chime of breaking glass startled both Taavi and her opponent. Waist-long braids of golden hair flashed between Taavi and the Ironfist warrior, as the Stiffbeard Chieftain turned her head - just for a second - in shock toward the unexpected sound of her daughter's voice._

 _It was a second she couldn't spare. Kylli watched in horror as the Ironfist surged abruptly toward her mother's body. His sword disappeared into the softly-rounded curve of her stomach. Taavi's eyes flashed wide in pain and a soft gasp spilled from her lips as her mallet crashed into the floor at her side. Kiin's knees finally buckled, struck with horror as he was himself, and Kylli tumbled from his arms as he lost his balance._

 _"Äiti!" she screamed again; she didn't even pay heed to the pain that shot up through her scraped knee as it connected hard against the stones for a second time that day._

 _No sooner did Kylli feel the smooth, white marble floor beneath her, than she started scrambling as quickly as she could toward her mother's body. The Ironfist had triumphantly torn his sword back out through her mother's body and gore dripped like liquid hate from the tip of his blade, as he leered at the tragic tableau that he had created._

 _Kiin recovered his senses long enough to draw his long-handled ax from its sheath across his strong back. As Kylli knelt, weeping, at her mother's fallen side, Kiin launched himself toward the Ironfist with a shout of his own._

 _" **Kunniaan**!" his cry echoed through the open, airy chamber._ ["For honor!"]

 _Kiin was no match for the Ironfist, but he did manage to surprise the more experienced dwarf. Enough so, that his ax struck true in the narrow, unguarded space between the enemy's gorget and right pauldron. What happened after that, Kylli never quite knew, as her attention went directly toward her gasping mother._

 _Taavi had her hands pressed firmly against the ragged gash that tore open her flesh from hip to hip. The sword had cut her low across her belly, at a slightly horizontal angle across the swelling that had just begun to show. Kylli averted her eyes and tried to keep her gaze firmly fixed on Taavi's face - she had no desire to know what her mother was so desperately trying to keep inside of her. The stench of death, blood, and gore clogged Kylli's nose as she bent, weeping softly, over her mother. Bile rose in the back of the young dwarf's throat, but she fought it down and tried to soothe the sharp creases of pain that now lined Taavi's forehead._

 _"Äiti," her whisper was almost lost in the clash of steel against steel that raged behind them. "Please, Äiti..." the plea died on her lips; Kylli had been in the world long enough to know that her beloved mother would not survive her mortal wound._

 _Tears blurred her eyes, even as Kylli tried desperately to memorize the shape of Taavi's face._

 _"Kyllikko," Taavi's voice was so faint that Kylli had to bend her ear almost to her mother's lips in order to catch what was being said._

 _The dying chieftain drew a ragged breath and Kylli could hear it rattle inside of her mother's chest. The tears came fast and hot, spilling over Kylli's brightly flushed cheeks and disappearing into her mother's beautiful blond braids._

 _"Be now the mountain,_

 _Be now the stone,_

 _Be now the Mother," ancient words brushed softly against Kylli's skin, carried ever so tenuously on her mother's breath._

 _Kylli recognized the words; they shocked her so soundly that for several long moments, her sobs caught inside her throat. She stared, wide-eyed and desperate, at her mother, as Taavi continued to speak, her breath rattling louder with each word._

 _"I Twice-Name you,_

 _Kivi, daughter of Thulin."_

 _"No, Äiti," Kylli finally found her voice and began to shake her head in wild disbelief._

 _Her hands sought her mother's and, quivering with the force of her sobs, Kylli tried herself to hold Taavi's broken body together. Blood leaked thick and warm across her fingers and the young dwarfling could only wail as her palms pressed desperately against the gore that threatened to spill out on to the floor between them._

 _"Mahal bless you,_

 _Chief of the North."_

 _"Äiti, no," Kylli - now newly re-named "Kivi" - finally placed her forehead against her mother's and let her tears mingle with Taavi's._

 _With her final words, Taavi had sealed her daughter's fate - the Horned Crown had now been handed over to the next generation._

 _"K-Kivi," Taavi could barely speak, but she had one last thing to say, one last attempt to spare the line of Thulin. "C-c-" her mouth, her tongue, couldn't quite form words any more, but she finally managed to gasp a single name: "N-Nopea."_

 _Kivi shook her head, not understanding what her mother was commanding of her. She hiccuped through her tears and listened in horror as the rattle in her mother's chest reached its peak -_

 _And then stopped._

 _Kivi's whole body froze, as her mind clawed through an overwhelming wave of denial. Frightened, confused, horrified, Kivi frantically moved her hands over her mother's hair, face, neck. After several anguished moments, the dwarfling realized that she was smearing blood wherever her fingers fell. A keening cry tore itself out of her throat, as she snatched her hands away, held them tight against her own stomach, and bent over in indescribable grief._

 _Before she could truly work herself into a good wail, a hand grabbed her arm for a second time that day and roughly hauled her to her feet. Kivi immediately twisted around to fight whoever had a hold of her, but she stopped just short of shoving her small fist into Kiin's already crooked nose._

 _She blinked dully through her tears - in her sorrow, she had quite forgotten about Kiin._

 _And the Ironfist._

 _Kivi whipped her head around toward the chamber door; Kiin had somehow managed to lure the Ironfist out of the room and had bolted the solid oak door shut between them. The new Chieftain stared, agape, at the door, and then at Kiin - only then, did she realize that his face was deathly pale. Confused, her eyes dropped and she saw, to her great dismay, that where his right hand had been, was now a bloody stump held stiffly to his chest._

 _"Kiin," Kivi's voice was low and hoarse; she looked from his mangled limb to his wan face._

 _He just shook his head, as if to shrug the whole thing off. His gaze lingered sadly on the floor behind Kivi and tears filled his own eyes as he realized that Taavi had gone to the Halls of Waiting._

 _"Nopea," his own voice was a rough scrape against the eerie silence around them. "We need to call Nopea."_

 _What her mother meant finally clicked into place inside of Kivi's head. Nopea was the Great Pale Owl that had bonded with Taavi a quarter of a century before. The enormous bird was big enough to carry a grown dwarf, much less a prepubescent dwarfling. Kivi then realized why Kiin had brought her up to her mother's chamber in the first place - Nopea's nest was said to be on the mountain ridge directly adjacent to the tower. The wide balcony that hugged half of the tower's exterior was large enough for Nopea to land on, so that Kivi could climb onto her back._

 _She had been brought to the Tower to escape._

 _All of this flashed through Kivi's mind as Kiin hustled her away from Taavi's broken body and toward the crystal balcony doors. They had already been opened to let the gentle summer breeze waft across the interior of the chamber, so it took no time at all for the two young dwarves to rush to the delicately carved granite banister that separated them from the vast emptiness of mountain air._

 _Kivi put two fingers in her mouth and blew hard; her whistle cracked loudly like thunder across the towering peaks around them. As her whistle called to their white-winged deliverer, the chamber door behind them shuddered ominously. Frightened, Kivi glanced over her shoulder, to see the tiniest tip of steel glimmer from the center of the thick pine panels. Alarmed, she whistled again and leaned over the balcony to see if she could catch a glimpse of Nopea's nest. Kivi had to crane her neck to see the near northern peak and Kiin grabbed a hold of her woven belt, to keep her feet steady on the stones beneath them._

 _The door groaned; Kivi didn't dare risk another glance behind her._

 _"Nopea!" she screamed in desperation._

 _The distinctive sound of splitting wood shot through the quiet chamber. Kivi began to shiver in terror and she turned wide eyes toward Kiin, as if to silently ask, "where is she?"_

 _"There!" Kiin hissed; he threw a hasty look over toward the door and his face tightened in alarm._

 _But, he distracted Kivi from what was happening behind them, by jerking his chin toward the southern slopes to their right. A bobbing white form grew larger and larger, giant wings propelling the graceful Nopea rapidly toward their desperate last stand._

 _For a whole minute, Kivi's heart soared in hope. Her mother - through Nopea - would rescue her one last time. And whatever lay on the horizon, she thought she could perhaps face it bravely, with Kiin at her side._

 _But, Nopea never made it to the balcony._

 _A rain of fire arched up from the slopes, toward the magnificent owl. She screamed - her cry high and otherworldly - as several arrows found their mark and set her ablaze. Kivi's cries joined Nopea's, as her mother's totem wove drunkenly in the air for the span of several agonizing screeches. Then her powerful wings went limp and she plummeted toward the jagged cliffs below her._

 _Kivi was beyond the point of articulation; she shrieked her grief and horror into the wind. She turned to throw her arms around Kiin, to grab a hold of the one being she had left at her side, and stopped to stare in disbelief at the knife that had seemingly sprouted between his shoulder blades. Confused, the young dwarrow-maid turned her head toward the broken shards of her mother's bedroom door and to the black-armored Ironfist who stood triumphantly in the middle of the blood-soaked floor._

 _"Kyllikko…" Kiin's last word was her True Name, whispered in a mixture of shock and sorrow._

 _Kivi could only choke on a plaintive sob, as Kiin's knees buckled and he fell forward toward the railing. Out of sheer instinct, Kivi threw herself beneath the momentum of his body and grabbed him around the waist. His dead weight was abrupt and knocked her own feet out from under her. The two collapsed to the floor, but Kivi was beyond caring. She had kept Kiin from pitching forward over the banister and onto the mountain below. Heart in her throat, she tried to ease him as carefully as she could to the floor, on his side. Hoping against hope, her hands fell about his face and neck, searching for a pulse, for a breath, for a sign of life._

 _Before she could come to terms with the fact that Kiin - her best friend and the man she had begun to dream of one day marrying - was as breathless as her mother, Kivi was hauled away from his body by her hair. She found her voice again, and she began to scream obscenities at the enemy that cruelly dragged her away from Kiin's body._

 _"What is this?" a sinister, gravelly voice cut sharply through Kivi's violent attempts to break free of the fist that held her captive._

 _The Ironfist who had a hold of her roughly forced her to turn away from the balcony, away from Kiin, and to face the door. The lord who had lead the slaughter in the Sky Hall contemptuously kicked Miekko's body out of his way, as he stepped through the shattered doorway._

 _"The bitch's daughter, Lord Synkkä," Kivi's captor grunted in the guttural tones of Khuzdul. "The heir-child."_

 _Kivi didn't hear what Synkkä said in response, as she was exhausting herself in an attempt to gather her feet beneath her. The room was silent, except for the sound of her boots slipping across the patterned white-and-gold marble tiles, as her captor all but tossed her toward Synkkä's spike-tipped boots. A soft groan slipped from her lips as her hands slipped in Taavi's drying blood. Too overcome with her emotions to look up, Kivi closed her eyes and kept her face bowed toward the floor._

 _Synkkä mistook her position as one of submission. He made a pleased sort of sound above her and Kivi could sense him bending over, reaching for her._

Please, Father, help me! _her soul cried out to Mahal as if on sheer instinct._

 _Synkkä's fingers brushed the top of her hair...and an incandescent rage flared up inside of the dwarfling. Kivi opened her eyes, intending to push herself to her feet and to push Synkkä's hand away from her, but the glint of mithril caught her attention._

 _Her training took over. Before the Ironfist lord could grab a hold of her, Kivi gritted her teeth, rolled neatly over the gore-slicked floor, and scrambled desperately over her mother's corpse. Everything in her rebelled against her sudden disregard for Taavi's body, but Kivi felt as if possessed. Her hands reached out and she grasped the heavy handle of her mother's war mallet as she sprang nimbly to her feet._

 _With a shout of defiance, Kivi rose proudly to her full height, her muscles taut with the strain of lifting the heavy mallet. With a strength she didn't know she had, the dwarfling heaved the mallet up and to the ready. Her eyes - narrowed with hate and fury - scraped over Synkkä's armor, looking instinctively for a tactical advantage. With a hiss pushed through her teeth, she hefted the mallet up higher above her chest and shoulders, ready to aim its heavy weight toward the center of his broad torso._

 _But, then her eyes caught sight of the hideous prize swinging grotesquely from Synkkä's belt -_

 _The head of her father, his red hair matted with blood, his face marred by what looked like a blow from an ax, his blue eyes like painted glass - dead and cold._

 _The fury-fueled bravery that had given her the strength to challenge the Ironfist lord drained abruptly from her. Fear tightened its icy grip around her heart and Kivi's arms dropped beneath the weight of her ancestral weapon. The mallet cracked the marble between her and Synkkä._

 _It took her several long seconds, however, to realize that the scream that ripped through the room was not hers._

 _Synkkä had stepped forward during her moment of panic. When Kivi dropped the mallet, it did more than crush her mother's carefully crafted tiles - half of Synkkä's left foot had found its unfortunate way beneath the mallet's flashing diamond head._

 _She was too appalled to scream. Stunned, Kivi froze, her hands still wrapped around the wooden handle that was so very cold against her palms. She stared, wide-eyed at Synkkä, too overwhelmed by the rapid series of events to react in any other way. As a result, she never saw the Ironfist's steel-covered hand flying across the distance between them._

 _The back of the dwarf lord's hand landed hard against Kivi's right cheek; her head whipped abruptly to the side from the force of the blow and her fingers finally slipped from around her weapon. The world grew dark as she slumped to the floor._

When Kivi regained consciousness, she was laying tangled up in the sheets of her bed. Her chest heaved, her throat was sore from her cries, and a timid little voice whispered out of the depths of the dark room to her left -

" _Täti_?"

Confused, Kivi shook her head, visions of the Harrowing still trying to bleed through from the past. The small voice came closer and she bolted up in her bed as a soft hand tentatively reached out to touch her left foot.

" _Täti_?"

"Keri?" Kivi licked her lips and hoarsely asked the darkness.

The past began to fade, as the present became more real.

"Yes," Keri confirmed her presence and the gentle hand now moved more boldly up to grasp the very tips of Kivi's shaking fingers. " _Täti_?"

"Yes, Keri?" Kivi took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her breathing; she opened up her hand and pressed her palm against her niece's.

"Why are you crying?"

Kivi's only answer was to roughly swallow a sob; she reached out to grab Keri's narrow shoulders and pulled her up into the bed. The two said nothing more and Keri, with the intuitiveness of youth, seemed to understand that she had asked a question that her aunt couldn't answer. So, the dwarfling curled into Kivi's arms, as she used to do when much younger, and listened silently as her aunt cried herself to sleep.


End file.
